


Music Hath Charms

by rubygirl29



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 128,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is an informer inside the ATF. When Vin and Ezra are nearly killed in a firefight with a mob boss, Chris and the others must find the traitor before the entire team is destroyed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Music Hath Charms**

 

 **Part One**

The crisp white shirt smelled of starch and felt like a sandpaper straight jacket. Vin Tanner ran his finger along the collar confining his throat. He’d partaken in any number of dangerous and difficult assignments with ATF Team Seven. He’d been shot, stabbed, drugged, beaten. He’d been hospitalized, imprisoned, endured claustrophobic hours on stakeouts, and he’d still consider trading the hours ahead of him for any of those preceding conditions.

“Chin up.”

Obedient, but seething, Vin tilted his head and allowed Ezra Standish to tighten the noose of a bow tie around his neck. “Don’t know why I couldn’t use one of them clip-ons,” he muttered, trying to suppress the urge to gag as Standish tugged the knot tight.

“Because the clip-on tie is the sign of a social heathen, Mr. Tanner.”

“Hell, I ain’t never claimed t’be religious.”

Ezra winced at the deliberate grammatical solecism. While scarcely given to erudition, Vin was capable of intelligible sentence construction; but he was pissed as hell, he was uncomfortable, and he wanted to annoy Ezra in the worst possible way. He was succeeding.

“Cuffs,” Ezra demanded shortly, and Vin extended his hands with the resigned air of a man being led away in restraints. Standish snapped on gold and ebony cufflinks and took the tuxedo jacket from the hanger. He held it out to Vin. “Ready?”

“No so fast there, Ez. Ya fergot somethin’.”

“What?”

Vin reached over to the chair behind him and slipped a leather shoulder rig over the crisp shirt. He secured his Sig-Sauer in the holster. Ezra patiently waited, the jacket held ready for Vin’s arms. Tanner finally settled the weapon comfortably and slipped into the garment. Ezra fussed with it for a bit.

“They don’t cut these to accommodate side-arms,” he commented.

“Mighty short-sighted of ‘em.”

With a final tug at the jacket hem, Ezra stepped back to survey his handiwork. “A miraculous transformation, Mr. Tanner. Take a look.” He opened the closet door, revealing a full length mirror.

Vin stared at his reflection. “I look like a waiter in a fancy restaurant,” he grumbled. “And feel jist about as ridiculous.”

“Nonsense. Waiters don’t wear Brioni tuxedoes,” Ezra said briskly. He ran an approving gaze over his creation. Tanner might be a woolly to the bone, wild Texas sharpshooter, but tonight he looked like he could walk down the red carpet to the Academy Awards. Elegant, clean-shaven, his brown hair glinting with red and gold highlights -- still longer than fashionable, but at least it had been trimmed -- he was ... passable. Even in the Dress Circle at the Colorado Opera.

Vin shifted uncomfortably. “Hell, Ezra. Quit lookin’ at me like I’m the prize pig at the county fair.”

“Charmin’ analogy. Try to keep your homespun comments to a minimum tonight.”

“Yeah, an’ I promise not to spit on the floor, cuss, ‘r whistle at the ladies, either.” Vin’s rasp of a voice was edged with acid, and Ezra had the grace to look ashamed.

“My apologies.” Ezra gave his own impeccable appearance a quick once-over. “I take it you’ve never been to an opera before.”

“Been to the Grand Ole Opry,” Vin winked at Ezra. “Don’t suppose that counts.”

Ezra knew when he was being tweaked and had to laugh. “Hardly. The thought of Tosca being sung with a Nashville accent is enough to unnerve the strongest of men.”

“What’s Tosca about?”

“Betrayal, lust, torture, death. You’ll love it.”

“Y’ask me, all opera is, is large women, loud voices, and the sorta music Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd chase around to.”

“Then you ought to appreciate it.” Ezra’s tooth glinted wickedly.

“Shit, it ain’t even sung in English,” Vin objected.

“They’ll project the lyrics in English over the stage. Supertitles.”

“Well, ain’t that super,” Vin said ironically, knowing that his dyslexia would make the supertitles as meaningless as if they were written in Italian. “Sounds a laugh a minute. Cain’t hardly wait.”

It had all the earmarks of being a very long night. But he wasn’t there to watch an opera, he was there to watch Gianni D’Amico, weapons dealer extraordinaire and supporter of the fine arts. For three months, Ezra had been working undercover, courting D’Amico with the promise of a huge deal, and tonight was to see the fruition of that plan. Vin’s job was to keep an eye on D’Amico’s goons while Ezra drew the noose tight. Hopefully, by the third act, they’d have Gianni and his henchmen locked up, and he could get out of this monkey suit, into his jeans, and enjoy a beer with Larabee and the other members of Team Seven.

There was a knock on the door, and Ezra left to answer it. Vin stood before the mirror. A slim, solemn, uncomfortable-looking man stared back at him. He rolled his shoulders to release the tension in them, worked his neck from side to side, felt the starched collar dig in and winced.

“Partner, you look about as easy as man on the gallows,” Chris said, standing in the doorway. “Relax.”

Vin grinned sheepishly at Larabee. “Hell, there ain’t no ease in me long as I’m wearing this rig.”

Chris chuckled. “Welcome to the real world, Mr. Tanner.”

“Got news fer ya, Larabee. This ain’t the real world. This is Cinderella goin’ t’the ball. At midnight I turn back inta the real Vin Tanner.”

“Gun and all?” Chris raised a brow.

Smiling, Vin patted his side. “That’s *always* real. Got it right next to my heart.”

A low whistle from the doorway announced Buck’s presence. “Well, well. Ya look right nice in that getup, Junior. Have the ladies fallin’ at your feet.” The tall agent did a slow walk around Vin. “Who’da thought you’d clean up so nice.”

“Thanks, Buck. I took a bath and it ain’t even Saturday,” Vin drawled acidly. His cheeks were burning bright with irritation and embarrassment. Everything itched, and he just wanted this evening to be over.

“Hey, Vin. You look good.” JD joined the group in the bedroom.

Could this get any more embarrassing, Vin wondered. He caught Chris’ eye. Larabee was leaning against the doorframe his arms crossed; trying and not succeeding to look as if he weren’t enjoying Vin’s discomfort. Angry, beyond caring that the suit he was wearing cost three times his weekly salary, Vin stuck his hands in his pockets and stood scowling in front of his best friend. “I’ll get you for this, *cowboy.*

Chris just smirked. “C’mon, gorgeous. Let’s roll.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The Buell theater was resplendent that night. The jewels of the women in the Parquet level lobby captured the lights from the chandeliers, their dresses were as many-hued as the wings of a butterfly, and their escorts were prosperous, groomed, civilized. Vin saw a few younger men wearing blue jeans and suit coats, but they were moving towards the stairs leading to the balconies, not the Dress Circle where Ezra’s seat was, or the boxes, where Vin was to be stationed.

“Here,” Ezra pressed a glass of champagne into Vin’s hand. “Mingle.”

“Somethin’ strike you as bein’ funny, Ezra?”

“No, what?”

“Oil and water don’t mingle.”

“Make an effort. I have to locate our friend D’Amico.” Ezra sipped nervously at his champagne and moved into the crowd gathering around the bar.

Vin chose to not to mingle. He tried to melt into the shadows, but there weren’t many shadows this night. The whole place was lit up like Christmas. He found a space behind a pillar and settled against the sandstone facing. He turned his head at a flicker of movement and caught his reflection in the dark glass of a mirror. For a moment, he didn’t recognize himself; lean and unfamiliar in the tailored tuxedo; sharp, fine features framed by the brown waves of his hair and set off by immaculate white cotton. The reflection mocked him with a wry twist of his mouth, identical to the one he felt tugging at his lips. *Cinderella. Right.*

Ezra, catching a glimpse of him from across the room thought he looked like a falcon in jesses, tamed for the moment, but wild at heart. He shivered, pitied any man who would fall into the line of those hooded eyes, and at the same time was immensely grateful that those same eyes would be protecting him.

Ezra took his refilled glass of champagne from the bartender and went to stand at the foot of the stairs, where he had agreed to make contact with D’Amico. He caught Vin watching him, and lifted the glass in acknowledgment.

Vin sensed the tension radiating from Standish, and knew the time of the rendezvous was close. He shrank a bit deeper into the recess offered by the pillar and watched as a stocky, dark-haired man strolled towards Ezra. His temples were touched with grey, but his tuxedo was tailored to set off his broad shoulders and fit body. He wore a gold ring on his left hand, and a diamond signet on his right that caught the eye in a glittering rainbow of light. He had a hard face and his eyes were dark and slightly reptilian. Every fibre of Vin’s being recognized a dangerous man.

He pulled out his cell phone -- a wire being unnecessary where the phone was considered nothing more than an accessory. “Chris, Ezra just made contact with D’Amico. Looks like they’re heading to their seats. I’ll be in mine shortly. Won’t be able to contact you from there.”

“Intermission?”

“Yeah.” Vin closed his phone, and started up the stairs towards his box seat. A grey-haired woman smiled warmly as she handed him a program and showed him to his seat. It was on the aisle, front row, affording an excellent view of the main floor and particularly the Dress Circle where Ezra and D’Amico were just being seated. Ezra glanced up casually, his eyes finding Vin, then moving on, as if he were admiring the auditorium. D’Amico spoke to him and Ezra smiled. He gave Vin a last gliding look and sat down.

Vin rose to allow a party of four to move into their seats. It was nearly time for the curtain to rise. All around him, he heard the buzz of voices as people anticipated the start of the opera. It was a happy sound and he wondered what it was about this spectacle that fascinated people. Seemed important to them to dress up, all in their bib ‘n tucker, as his grandpa used to say. A man in the next row of seats had an earpiece that Vin was pretty sure was connected to a radio tuned to the Rockies game, not classical music. He caught the gentleman’s eye, and the man voiced “Two to one, us.”

Grinning, Vin settled back in his seat. The woman next to him took out a pair of small, jeweled binoculars. Hell, this was just like a sporting event, after all. The curtain rose, and the performance began.

It was surprising. The woman singing Floria Tosca was gorgeous, with a voice like an angel. The costumes and scenery were lavish, the music stirring. He didn’t understand much of what they were singing aside from the supertitles that he was able to get his brain to decipher, but found that the music carried the story. When the villain Scarpia sang of having two victims for his revenge, one on the gibbet and one in his bed, chills ran up and down his spine, and he was disconcerted to find himself casting Gianni D’Amico in that role. He sure hoped Ezra wasn’t playing the ill-fated hero, Mario Cavaradossi.

By the ending of the first act, Vin was enthralled. The lights came up, dazzling him for a moment until his eyes adjusted. He sought out Ezra, found him making his way into the lobby. Vin pulled out his cell phone, hurried out of the auditorium, and called Chris.

“You survived Act One?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, and so did Ezra. He’s on the level below me drinking more champagne with D’Amico. Chris, I have a bad feelin’ about this.”

“Keep your eye on him. There’s not much else you can do until D’Amico makes his move.”

“I know. Listen, Chris, they’re heading back to their seats. I’ve got to go. There’s another intermission. I reckon that’s when things’ll heat up.”

“Watch your back, pard.”

“Thanks.” Vin shut his phone. He went back to his seat. Ezra and D’Amico entered, chatting like the best of friends. The unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach persisted. He returned to his seat, waited to see that Ezra and D’Amico were in theirs, and kept his eyes fixed on them until the house lights dimmed.

As the lights went down, the world on the stage suddenly seemed more real than the world surrounding him. His training as a sniper had taught him to be outside his body; he could view the action on the stage, and still be aware of Ezra’s peril. He watched and heard the performance. Scarpia attempting to seduce Tosca even as he tortured Cavaradossi. Tosca, betraying her lover’s cause to save his life, weeping as she sang. His stomach churned as Scarpia swore to save Cavaradossi, and at the same time, betrayed his word. He sat upright in his seat as Tosca drove the dagger into Scarpia’s body and laid him out with candles and crucifix. It was magnificent. And it told him something that crystallized his fears.

Vin turned to the woman in the seat next to his. “Ma’am, could I borrow those binoculars?” he asked her.

“These?” Surprised, but courteous, she handed her opera glasses over to him. He focused. Ezra and D’Amico were gone. D’Amico had set a trap.

He gave the glasses back, and with an agile leap, made it to the aisle just as the house lights came up and the rest of the audience moved to leave their seats. The main lobby was filling rapidly, but he caught a glimpse of Ezra’s auburn hair as he and D’Amico exited the theater. Vin shoved the crowd aside, pulled out his cell phone, called Chris.

“It’s a set-up! Get someone around the east exit. I’m right behind him.” He didn’t wait for Chris to respond. He shoved the phone in his pocket and took out the Sig Sauer as he went through the doors. Darkness, where there should have been light. That D’Amico had some of his goons take care of that detail, Vin didn’t doubt. He moved along the wall, figuring that Ezra and D’Amico couldn’t be far ahead of him.

He edged close to the corner of the building where the shadows deepened. The dark shape of a car was barely discernible. The driver’s side door was open but the darkly tinted windshield obscured the interior, and Vin wondered how many men were in D’Amico’s entourage. He heard voices, a harsh growl that had to be D’Amico, and Ezra, answering in a drawl that managed to retain its elegance despite the faint edge of shocked disbelief -- as if the agent were trying to convince D’Amico that he was innocent of whatever charges were being laid against him. The headlights of the car came on full, nearly blinding him. He blinked hard, squinting. Ezra was shoved out of the car, and a hulk of a man caught him in a choke hold. D’Amico emerged behind them, a pistol in his hand.

The light beams illuminatined the three figures; D’Amico, Ezra, and the hulk, who pinned Standish against the wall with one meaty forearm, while the other drew back and delivered a savage blow to his midsection. Ezra’s breath went out in a gagging wheeze and his knees buckled. He would have fallen, but the big man continued to support him against the wall. He looked at D’Amico, who nodded once. The arm pumped, the fist hit with a sound like a brick beating against a wet sponge.

Vin drew a breath and launched himself from the shadows, the Sig shooting flames into the night. The big man went down first, Ezra crumpling in a heap over him. D’Amico was fast for a man of his age and size, he drew his own gun, aimed and fired. An invisible fist slammed into Vin’s side. He dropped, rolled, came up to one knee, unsteady, but shooting with the deadly instincts that had been trained in him. Crimson blossomed on D’Amico’s white shirt, his gun fell from lifeless fingers, and he went down hard. Gunfire erupted from the direction of the automobile. A burning pain lanced through Vin’s arm, concrete chips flew as a spray of bullets danced across the wall. Vin whirled. He lifted his arm, braced his wrist across his forearm, and squeezed the trigger at the flash of the gunfire. Glass shattered, a harsh grunt of pain, and the shooter fell flat on the concrete and was still.

Vin hauled himself up, his hand pressed against his ribs as blood welled and dripped between his fingers. “Ezra!” he gasped. He was running out of strength, running out of time. He staggered over to the other agent. Standish was pale, his lips smeared with a bloody froth. The weight of Vin’s pain bore him to his knees. He laid his hand against Ezra’s neck; there was a faint pulse beneath the cool skin. Relief shivered through him, and, as a hot, red wave of pain overwhelmed him, he doubled over and fell into darkness.

*******************

 

Too late. He was too fucking late! Chris and the others swarmed into the alley, guns drawn, and then halted, apalled. Three minutes, less, since Vin’s warning. D’Amico had planned it well, blocking access to the east exit, slowing the team just enough. Now, Chris stood there, his chest heaving, and his mind foolishly thinking that he was looking at the final scene of an opera -- everyone dead but the mourning chorus.

Buck caught his arm in hard fingers. “Chris!”

The illusion vanished, and he saw Vin, collapsed and bleeding, one arm outflung over Ezra’s still body. D’Amico was dead, his bodyguard, dead. His driver, dead. When Vin shot, he didn’t miss. Chris went down on his knees beside his fallen friend. “Jesus, Vin ...” There was so much blood. He pulled aside the black tux jacket; the shirt beneath was more crimson than white, but Vin’s chest rose and fell beneath Chris’ palm, and his pulse was weak, but regular. Chris jerked the cummerbund from Vin’s waist, folded it into a pad, and pressed it against the wound in his side. More blood seeped from a wound high on his shoulder, but it was a sluggish flow and seemed to be slowing. “Hang on, pard. Help’s coming.”

Dark lashes fluttered open. “Chris ... Ezra’s down.”

“Shhh. Buck’s looking after him. You just lie still.”

“He all right?” Vin asked in a thready whisper.

“Buck?” Chris turned to Wilmington. “How’s he doin’?”

“Okay, I think. Doesn’t seem to have been shot, just had the shit beat outta him.” Buck said. He pulled off his jacket and covered Standish with it. “JD’s already called 911. The paramedics should be here any minute.” He didn’t know if Chris heard him, he was so focused on Vin, as if those green eyes of his could cauterize Tanner’s wounds by staring at them.

Chris laid a hand alongside Vin’s cool cheek. “Pard, you hear that? Ezra’s okay. We’re getting you both to the hospital.” But Vin’s eyes had closed again, so pale that the fragile veins on his eyelids showed blue through the translucent skin, terrifying Chris. “Hold on, partner. God, Vin ...” he choked down an anguished whisper.

Buck’s big hand closed on Chris’ shoulder. “He’ll make it, Chris.”

Chris looked up, his face illuminated by the throbbing light of ambulance and police lights as they pulled up to the curb. “Tell ‘em to hurry, Buck.”

Then the paramedics arrived and Chris had to move from Vin’s side so they could treat him and transport him. As they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance, Chris grabbed the door. “I’m riding with him,” he said, and swung into the bay.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

An eternity later, a tired, blood-stained surgeon stood in front of the five men who had gathered in the surgical waiting room. Elizabeth Stone sometimes wondered if she should set up a private practice just for these seven men. “Mr. Larabee?” She knew he was listed as Vin Tanner’s next of kin and held his power of attorney.

Chris stood. “How is he?”

“It took three units of blood, some fancy surgery, and Mr. Tanner’s own stubborn determination to stay with us, but he’s out of immediate danger and his vital signs are stable.” She could have sworn five collective breaths were drawn in relief, as they indulged in a moment of quiet celebration. They had been lucky that night. Ezra had been admitted from the ER with cracked ribs and deep abdominal bruising, and was being held overnight for observation. It could have been so much worse.

“Can we see him?” Larabee asked.

“In the morning.”

“Doc, it’s important.”

She shrugged. “He’s out of it. He won’t know you’re there.”

Chris smiled slightly. “He’ll know.”

Dr. Stone considered, recalled what she knew of the team. Five men, dissimilar but for the look of concern in their eyes. She sighed and folded her arms. “All right. One at a time.”

Buck held Chris back for a moment. “I’m gonna look in on Ezra, give him the good news, if he’s awake. You tell Vin I’m pullin’ for him.”

“Thanks, Buck. I will. Tell Ezra to get some rest. I’ll be in to see him later.”

Chris waited outside the curtained cubicle for his turn to visit Vin. JD had come out a few minutes earlier, shaken and solemn. Chris had sent him and Nathan down to visit Ezra, knowing Buck would take the young agent under his wing and see him safely home. Now, he could hear Josiah’s deep voice rumbling a prayer. Chris doubted his own prayers reached the ears of the Lord, but he believed that God would listen to Josiah, if only for the sheer pleasure of hearing that velvety voice He had created.

He looked up when Josiah moved the curtain aside. “You think that helped?”

Josiah’s weary face creased into a smile. “Didn’t seem t’hurt. Might have got the Lord’s attention focused on our young friend. He’s a strong man, Chris. All that fightin’ he did just to stay here proves that.” He gave Chris’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Don’t you give up on him, brother.”

“Ain’t a givin’ up man, you know that, Josiah.” He slid the curtain aside.

Too many machines, too many tubes and wires; and on the narrow bed, Vin. Slight and pale beneath the sheet that covered him. Blood, as rich and red as burgundy wine, dripped through an IV tube into his arm. Chris wished he could squeeze the last drops from the bag to force some warmth and life into Vin’s face. Right now, his only color came from the dark feathering of his lashes against his cheeks and the swirl of brown hair on his forehead. But he didn’t seem to be in pain, and the throb of his pulse on the monitor was steady and strong.

Reassured, Chris sat in the chair next to the bedside and touched Vin’s hand with the backs of his fingers, lightly brushing over the cool skin. “Damn thin-blooded Texan. You don’t have much to spare to begin with, without getting plugged full of bullet holes. Not to mention what you’re costing the US government in health insurance.” He sighed, took a breath, “And me, in worry and aggravation. Damn it, Vin. I don’t know how much more of this I can take, partner. One of these days it’s gonna catch up with you, and I don’t think I could stand that, I really don’t.” He stopped his voice from cracking on the edge of a sob, angry that he had let someone breach those stony barriers he had erected over the last few years. “The team needs you. *I* need you. So don’t you give up, Tanner. You hear me?”

Impossibly, that hand stirred beneath his. Chris lifted his head; a faint crescent of blue showed beneath dark lashes. “Vin?” The pale lips voiced his name, but there was no breath behind the effort to make it audible. “Shh, partner. I know. You just stay with us, okay?”

A faint twitch of the lips, a sigh, and the eyes closed again. The monitor continued beeping, the blood continued dripping through the IV, and Vin slept. Vulnerable and so goddamn young that Chris was afraid to leave his side. He stayed until the Dr. Stone reappeared with a nurse in tow.

“You’ll need to leave, now, Chris.” Now that the urgency had passed, they were on familiar ground.

“If there is any change -- any at all -- I want to be notified.”

“He’s been stable now for several hours. I doubt there will be any reason for alarm, but I will contact you if his condition changes. He should be able to be moved to a regular room by morning.”

“Thanks, doc.” Chris watched the nurse checking the IV and monitor. She smoothed the sheets, and touched Vin’s forehead gently. Chris tried not to smile. Women. Seemed they all felt a need to comfort Tanner when he was hurting. Too bad he was usually unconscious and couldn’t see the effect he had on them. It put Buck’s infamous animal magnetism to shame. But he’d never tell Wilmington that.

After he left the SICU, he went down to Ezra’s room. Nathan was sitting in the hallway. He looked up when he heard Chris’ footsteps. “JD and Buck went back to the office,” he explained. “They said they’d take care of some of the paperwork.”

Chris nodded gratefully and sank down next to Nathan. “How’s Ezra?” Chris asked.

“Pretty doped up. He was glad to hear about Vin, though.”

“He awake?”

“Barely.”

Chris peered inside the room. Beneath the overhead light, Ezra was very pale, closed eyes dark-circled, and his mouth drawn in a straight line. He was hooked up to an IV and a morphine pump. “Ezra?” Chris whispered, and the eyes fluttered open.

“Mr. Larabee ... I’m sorry ... went badly.”

“Wasn’t your fault, Ezra. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

“Vin?”

“He’ll be all right.”

“Bled all over.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Brionitux ...” he murmured.

“What?” Chris wasn’t sure what Ezra was trying to say, but it didn’t make much sense. “Get some rest, we’ll work on it tomorrow.” Ezra’s eyes had closed again. Chris dimmed the overhead light, and left. Tomorrow was going to be a real bitch of a day.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

 

The day started far too early. Chris was on the phone to the hospital before seven, checking on Vin and Ezra. According to the nurses, both had spent a quiet night, and Vin was being moved to a private room later that morning. Then he went to the office, facing an inquiry into what exactly had gone wrong. A thousand questions, and he had the answers to none of them. He sat at the conference table, facing Orrin Travis and several other ATF honchos, an FBI investigator, and a supervisor from the Treasury Department, all of whom had ties with the D’Amico investigation. He was grateful for Josiah Sanchez’s large, quiet presence at his right hand.

The Treasury Agent, a man Chris had never been particularly fond of, raised his brows, as he read Buck’s hastily written report from the night before. “You have no idea what went wrong?” he asked, implying that Chris was somehow derelict in his duty.

“I know what went wrong,” Chris said in that cold drawl that could send icy rivers of sweat down a man’s back. “One of my agents damn near bled to death last night, and the other was so badly beaten that his internal organs were bruised. That’s what went wrong.”

“I was speaking of the cause, not the effect, Mr. Larabee.”

Chris leaned back in his chair, and only Josiah knew how deceptive that posture was. Larabee’s eyes were half-closed, his fine hands were clasped loosely on his the lean middle, and he considered Ed Williams with green eyes that held a smouldering anger. “Given the number of agencies and people involved in this investigation, I can only guess that human error was involved.”

“Are you suggesting that the investigation was compromised by a deliberate breach of security?”

“Hell, no.” Chris set his folded hands on the table. “I’m saying that my men were betrayed and left out to hang. I don’t care if it was deliberate, accidental, or if a fucking little birdie sang in D’Amico’s ear, the leak had to be internal.”

“Bullshit!”

“Gentlemen!” Orrin Travis interceded before Williams and Larabee could tear out each other’s throats. “Obviously, we are getting nowhere with this at the moment. I suggest we take Mr. Wilmington’s reports back to our respective departments and start asking questions. I agree with Mr. Larabee, something was leaked. We cannot continue an investigation of this scope without knowing what went wrong. And as much as I regret the injuries to agents Tanner and Standish, it would have been much worse if Vin Tanner hadn’t taken action.”

Williams objected to Travis’ defense of the sharpshooter. “Thanks to Tanner, D’Amico is dead! We might as well use this documentation to wipe our asses.” Williams swept a dissmissive hand over the files in front of him.

Orrin saw Larabee jerk upright in his seat, saw Josiah Sanchez reach out quick as lightning and grab hold of his suit coat to restrain him from a rash act that could ruin his career, and stepped in quickly, his own anger close to the boiling point at the insinuation that the lives of his men were expendable. “Agents Tanner and Standish are ten times more valuable than Gianni D’Amico, Williams. Remember, Gianni may have been the head of his organization, but the Hydra has many heads, you cannot kill it by decapitating one. This investigation is far from complete. However, I will not proceed until I am sure that no more of my men will be compromised.”

Williams opened his mouth, thought the better of crossing the gimlet-eyed Assistant Director, and subsided into silent fuming. The other representatives nervously gathered up their papers, and, with a promise to Orrin that they would have their preliminary reports on his desk later that day, filed out. Williams and Larabee shot daggers at each other until Orrin stepped in once again.

“Agent Williams, I believe that the brunt of this investigation now rests on the Treasury Department, at least until we can discover the source of the leak.”

Chris, who had been alarmingly quiet since Josiah’s intervention, spoke up into the silence. “Yeah, maybe you can get him on income tax evasion, like Al Capone.”

“My men weren’t fucking around in bed with D’Amico, Larabee. Maybe Standish got a little too chummy. A man who wears thousand dollar suits and drives around in a car like his doesn’t buy those perks on a government salary.”

Chris was beyond anger. Beyond speech. He uncoiled from his chair, and this time Josiah didn’t hold him back, and Travis knew *he* couldn’t; they watched transfixed as Chris leaned forward across the table. He didn’t lay a hand on Williams, but the Treasury Agent was paralyzed, speared by those green eyes.

When Chris spoke, his voice was calm, conversational. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve got two men down with wounds a lot more serious than a fucking paper cut. You watch your back, Williams, because after today, no one else will.” He straightened his arms, standing upright. “Orrin, I’ll be at the hospital. I can’t stay here. Josiah, you coming?”

“Yeah.” Josiah rose, got a nod of dismissal from Travis, and followed Chris out the door. Chris was halfway down the corridor, his shoulders high and tense, his normally smooth strides taut and angular, as if the rage he was holding inside were struggling to get out and couldn’t force its way through the prison of flesh confining it. Josiah didn’t try to stop him or slow him down. Larabee was a man who spent his emotions in physical actions, and if that release could be harmlessly discharged before he got behind the wheel of his truck, then that was for the best. He kept within sight, just to be sure some unsuspecting soul didn’t run into Larabee and set off that fuse.

By the time Chris reached the garage, his anger had dissipated. Josiah found him leaning against his truck, grasping the door handle, his forehead resting on his bent arm, and drawing deep breaths.

“You all right, Chris?” Josiah asked. No answer. He shook his head. “I sometimes wonder what the Lord was thinkin’ when he created assholes like Williams.”

Chris turned around, white lines of anger still bracketing the corners of his mouth, but the deadly rage seeping away. “I woulda thought you’d blame the Devil for that, Josiah.”

Josiah laughed. “Satan created evil. The Lord created stupid to test and strengthen our control over our less civilized impulses so we can resist evil.”

“Right now, I don’t see much difference, Josiah.” But a weary smile curved his lips.

Josiah grinned, pleased to see the famous Larabee rage on the wane. “You be careful drivin’, Chris. We don’t need another body in the hospital.”

“I will.”

“See you there in a while, then.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin woke with a mouth like cotton and a fire in his side like the devil was prodding him with a red hot poker. Where was he? He focused his senses on solving the problem. The odor of antiseptic, a steady electronic beep, the dry feel of the sheets beneath his body that weren’t rough, but weren’t smooth and cool either. Hell. Or as close to it as he was gonna get in this life. The hospital. Shit.

He remembered the opera, seeing Ezra being beaten by D’Amico, the fire fight in the alley, and then ... nothing. Well, sort of nothing. He knew Chris had been there; no matter what happened to him, Chris was always there. He cracked open an eye. Yup, the hospital. And he was gonna be here for a while, judging from the way he felt. He moved his hand over the covers until he located the call button and pressed it. A disembodied voice crackled from the speaker on the wall.

“How can I help you?”

“W-w-water?” He wasn’t sure there was enough effort behind his voice, but eventually the door opened and a tall African-American nurse stood looking down at him. She took his blood pressure, held his wrist in cool, impersonal fingers, wrote something down on a clipboard, stuck a thermometer in his ear. Wrote that down. “Guess I’m alive,” Vin whispered, attempting humor.

A smile lit her severe face. “Sure are, sweetie. What can I get for you?”

“Water?”

“How ‘bout some ice-chips?”

“Thanks.”

She disappeared. He closed his eyes and drifted.

A warm, firm hand cupped the back of his head and neck, raising him. There was a cool slide of moisture over his dry, chapped lips. They parted to allow the melting ice to trickle liquid into his mouth. Heaven. “More?” he whispered.

“You sure?”

Vin opened his eyes and smiled. “Hey, Chris. Ya look tired.”

“You look alive. Barely.” Chris tilted the glass of ice until a small chip slid through Vin’s lips. He waited until Vin took a few more chips before he spoke. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

“Been better.” He sighed tiredly. “Been worse, too.”

The strong sunlight coming through the window showed how pale he was. Sallow beneath his light tan; the fragile skin under his eyes bruised and sunken. But his lips were faintly pink, and the beds of his nails were no longer dead white. Chris smiled. “Seen you look better. Seen you look worse, too.”

“How’s Ezra?” Vin asked after a minute, when he had enough strength to speak again.

“Cracked ribs, deep bruises on his abdomen. He was in a lot of pain last night. I haven’t been down there yet today.”

“I’d like t’see him.”

“Maybe you can figure out what a ‘brionitux’ is,” Chris said wryly.

Vin frowned. “Sounds like some sort of antibiotic.” He yawned. His eyes closed, then opened again, a bit blurred with the enormous fatigue that weighed him down.

Chris watched Vin struggle against exhaustion, aching for him. He rested a hand on Vin’s shoulder, gripped it lightly. “You rest. I’ll be back later.”

“Thanks, Chris. Reckon I’m tired.”

“Hell, partner. I can’t imagine why.” He stayed by the bedside until Vin’s breathing became slow and deep. He didn’t like seeing the pain etched on Tanner’s face, but knowing Vin’s resistance to analgesics, he wasn’t surprised at his willingness to endure it. Damn stubborn Texan. Then Chris smiled, realizing that he wasn’t much less obdurate than Tanner.

He left Vin’s room, sought out the nurse and told her about Vin’s reluctance to admit to pain. She lifted a brow at him. “You think I haven’t figured that out?”

“Sorry, ma’am, I just thought I’d mention it.”

This time, a wide smile lit her face. “He’s got good friends. Dr. Rain Jackson told us the same thing. I’m keeping my eye on him, don’t you worry.”

Relieved, Chris went to visit Ezra, making a short detour along the way. When he looked into the room, Standish was sitting up in bed eyeing his breakfast tray suspiciously. He seemed to be better, but the hunch of his body betrayed that he was hurting still. And given what Chris had seen last night, he’d be hurting for a while.

Ezra looked up when he noticed Chris standing in the doorway. “Mr. Larabee, welcome to my humble abode. Breakfast has been served, though I fear I cannot recommend this noxious yellow substance that is attemptin’ to pose as scrambled eggs.”

“Thanks, Ezra. I think I’ll pass on that.”

Ezra picked up a piece of toast, which drooped as if it had been soaked in liquid. He set it down with disgust, and examined his coffee. “I have no great hopes for this ... this brown water.”

Chris brought his hand from behind his back. “Maybe this will help.” The delicious aroma of a latte rose from the cup in his hand. “They have a coffee kiosk in the lobby, and something told me that you would appreciate the real thing.”

Ezra’s eyes widened, and for a moment his expression was so nearly identical to the look in Vin’s when some small act of kindness took him by surprise, that Chris was startled. Standish was the last man he expected to be taken aback by such a gesture. He took the cup from Chris, inhaled the fragrance, and sighed. “You have my undying gratitude, Mr. Larabee.”

“Ezra, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Chris grinned, and Standish resumed his world-weary demeanor.

“You wound me, sir. But I still am grateful. I believe I might live through the morning.” He sipped, smiled, sank back against his pillows. His blissful expression faded as a memory returned to him. He recalled Vin reaching out to him, his blood soaking the white pleated shirt he wore. He cast a cautious glance at Larabee. “How is Mr. Tanner?” he asked.

“Weak, but recovering.”

Ezra saw there was more to that response than Larabee was willing to say. “I’d like to see him before I’m discharged.” And then as if he needed to explain, “He saved my life.”

“You think you’ll be out of here today?”

“I intend for it to happen today. There is nothing they can do for me here that I can’t do for myself in the comfort and privacy of my own home. At least the food is edible there.” Ezra scowled at the remains of his breakfast. “And all this at rates that would easily keep me in luxury at the Ritz.”

“Ezra, what happened last night?” Chris asked.

Ezra pleated his covers with nervous fingers. He looked down, shook his head. “I assure you, if I knew what had gone wrong, Mr. Tanner and I would not be in this place.” When he looked up at Chris, his green eyes were shadowed with more than physical pain. “I have *always* prided myself on my ability to read my opponent and gauge the strength of his hand. Unfortunately, I seem to have met my match.”

“Your match is dead, Ezra.”

“And so nearly was Vin. I hold myself to blame. I should have seen --”

“You were betrayed, Ezra.”

“Betrayed?” Disbelief echoed in Standish’s voice.

“Your hand was tipped.”

Ezra paled. “Who?”

“I don’t know.” He leaned forward, intense. “I have to tell you this, Ezra. You might find yourself a suspect.”

Standish’s normally cool demeanor slipped. He slammed his hand against the edge of his tray table, shoving it out of the way and heedless of the IV in his arm, and his painfully bruised muscles, swung his legs over the side of the bed. “That is a lie! I may be many things -- Lord, I have been many things in my life -- but I am not a traitor --” Weakness and pain hit in a wave that left him shaking, clinging to the IV pole, and gasping.

Chris grabbed his shoulders, set him down on the bed. “Easy, Ezra. I know it’s a lie. I know you would never sell out Vin, or any of us. But there’s some folks out there who have questions about what happened, and I have to give them answers.”

“I don’t have any,” Ezra whispered bitterly. He looked away from Chris, and Larabee stood over him for a moment.

“Ezra, what’s a brionitux?”

“What?”

“Brionitux. You seemed very worried about it last night.”

Ezra started laughing, then winced as his abused muscles tightened in protest. “Not brionitux. Brioni tux ... tuxedo. Unfortunately, that is what Mr. Tanner was wearing last night.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t want to know how much it cost, Mr. Larabee.”

Chris laughed. “Hell, the Treasury Department’s running this investigation. I’ll just let them pay for it. I never liked Williams, anyway. Less since he was inclined to put the blame on you and Vin.” He set a surprisingly gentle hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “You take it easy, Ezra. Let me deal with Williams.”

As he left Standish’s room, the thought of Williams having to fork out several thousand dollars for Vin’s and Ezra’s evening wear brightened his day briefly, before worry set in once more. Just when you thought you saw the light at the end of the tunnel, it turned out to be the train.

*****************

Ezra made his painful way down the hospital corridors towards Vin’s room. He had genteelly bullied his doctors into discharging him, sweet-talked JD into bringing him some clothes, and was determined to prove that he was not only fit to be discharged, but could manage to navigate his way unassisted. Consequently, he was exhausted by the time he sank down in the chair at Tanner’s bedside. He was grateful that Vin was sleeping and hadn’t witnessed that ignoble collapse. He breathed as deeply as his ribs would allow and waited for the sharpshooter to wake.

Vin’s sixth sense of presence roused him. He knew who it was before he opened his eyes. Ezra’s distinctive aftershave gave him away. He turned his head, and saw Ezra watching him with worried green eyes.

“Hey there, Ez. Looks like yer blowin’ this pop stand.”

“Not nearly soon enough. I am sorry it isn’t the same for you.”

Vin shrugged, forgetting his wounded shoulder and winced. “Ya think I’d be used to it by now. Been here often enough.”

“Vin, I regret what happened. You saved my life, and I was unable to stop D’Amico --”

“Wasn’t yer fault.”

Still, looking at Tanner’s drawn face and the inescapable evidence of the severity of his injuries, Ezra felt a stab of guilt. “No, but --”

“It ain’t yer fault. Don’t think like it was,” Vin insisted. “Chris ain’t holdin’ y’to blame, is he?”

Ezra laughed softly at that. “If he did, I wouldn’t be sittin’ here.” The next words were hard to say, and he couldn’t look Vin in the eye when he spoke. “He did tell me, however, that some of the other agencies involved are lookin’ at me as a convenient scapegoat.”

Vin snorted. “Aw hell, Ez. They’re jist tryin’ t’cover up their asses. They’re the ones that fucked up. If they’d done their chickenshit jobs right the first time, ya wouldn’t’ve had t’cozy up t’D’Amico, and none of this would’ve happened.”

“It happened,” Ezra said bitterly. “And regardless of blame, I do regret it.” A pained expression crossed Vin’s face, and Ezra rose a bit unsteadily. “You don’t need me to keep you from your rest, and I believe Buck will be arrivin’ to effect my release shortly.” He looked down at Vin without a trace of his usual world-weary demeanor. “You did save my life, Vin. The thought of what that ... that creature would have done to me without your timely intervention is the stuff of nightmares. Thank you.”

A faint blush suffused Vin’s pale cheeks. “Even though I ruined that fancy suit ya put me in?”

“Signore Brioni should be honored to have his creations worn by a man such as yourself.”

Vin chuckled, “Thought they said the clothes make the man.”

“Not in this case, my friend. Not in this case.” He touched two fingers to his brow in a salute and left Vin smiling.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris had never been so glad to get out of his office in his life. For five hours he had been going over surveillance tapes, transcripts, and oral reports made by the three government departments involved in the D’Amico investigation. They all claimed to be entirely innocent of blowing Ezra’s cover; Williams in particular had made a point of insinuating blame on Team Seven despite the fact that there was *no* supporting evidence of any wrongdoing, deliberate or unintentional.

Chris would have bled out the last of his blood in defense of Vin and Ezra; reining in his temper wasn’t much easier. He had held his tongue until the acid in his stomach was like to wear a hole clear through the walls and his head was throbbing with unrelenting pain. Finally, when he was one whisper away from throttling Williams, Orrin Travis had called him away.

Travis had seen Larabee angry. He had seen him violent, he had seen him strike with the speed and cold calculation of a rattlesnake at an enemy. He had also seen him weep with frustration, cradle an injured man with a touch as tender as a father’s, and face hell and screaming bullets to save the men on his team. He had never seen him so close to collapse as he was that day.

When he invited Larabee to have a seat, the tall agent’s bones seemed to fold like a house of cards. Travis reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. When Larabee raised a brow, the older man shook his head. “You tell Evie about this, and I’ll have your badge.”

Chris gave a tired chuckle. “Evie finds out, and you’ll be in no position to make threats.”

“Medicinal purposes, only.” He offered the glass to Chris. “Take it, son.”

“Thanks.” He tossed it back and set the glass down on the floor at his feet. He lay his head against the back of the chair. “Orrin, if you don’t get Williams off this case, I will commit murder.”

“You know I can’t do that, Chris.”

“Then tell him to shut the fu -- to stop implying that D’Amico turned Ezra.”

“I will advise more discretion from *all* of the investigators. Your team included.”

Chris narrowed chilly eyes at Travis. “I never figured you to turn into a politician, Orrin.”

Stung by Larabee’s assessment, and uncomfortably aware that the accusation was true, Travis answered a bit coldly. “Like it or not, Chris, we are *all* politicians at this level.”

Chris stood, anger impelling him into motion. “Not when it comes to my Team, Orrin. Not when it comes to my friends. Have you been to see Vin? Do you care that he nearly died that night? That Ezra would have died, if Vin hadn’t been as good a shot as he is? Do you care about my men?”

“Damn it! Of course I care! Evie thinks of you all like family -- and I --” He stopped, drew a deep breath. “We lost our son, Chris -- to lose any of your team, including yourself -- would be like losing Steven all over again.” For a moment his anguish showed on his face, then the lines smoothed away as he mastered his emotions. “But I have responsibilities. Favoritism will get you nothing but resentment and uncooperative attitudes from the other departments involved. That could be a hell of a lot more dangerous than Williams sniping at Ezra Standish.”

“And if it goes beyond sniping?”

“Then you know I will be at your side. I swear it.” Chris studied Orrin. Trust came hard to him, and his acceptance of Travis’ pledge was tainted with doubt. He turned to leave, and Travis called him back. “Tell Vin I truly appreciate what he did the other night, and that Evie and I are thinking of him.”

“And what do I tell Ezra?” Chris asked.

“Tell him what I just told you.” Travis met that level gaze, challenging Chris to accept his word. Larabee was as unyielding as granite, and Orrin couldn’t blame him. After he left, Travis picked up the whiskey bottle. He held it up to the light as if considering taking a drink, then tightened the cap and set it back in the drawer. He needed clarity of thought, not the false security of liquor. He pulled out a file and began reading.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

His head still throbbing, Chris drove out to Ezra’s swank development. He parked and sat in the gathering darkness, trying to figure out how to approach Ezra. They hadn’t talked, really talked, about the accusations against him and Chris needed to get things clear in his mind. He didn’t doubt Ezra, but he could understand why others might look askance at the undercover agent.

His own lifestyle came under scrutiny on occasion. Questions about how he could afford a place like the ranch, his horses, his truck, on his government salary. He answered them honestly, if they were honestly asked, and stiffed them if they were malicious. He didn’t expect his team to account for every penny of their income. He didn’t ask Vin what he did with his money -- God knew he didn’t spend it on himself -- or Nathan. He never asked Buck how much he frittered away on his women, or JD on his stereos, bikes, and various recreations. Why should he question Ezra’s standard of living? He had long suspected that some of Ezra’s luxuries were financed by winnings from high stakes poker games played in the back rooms of Las Vegas casinos, but there was nothing illegal about gambling in Nevada, and, since Ezra showed no signs of it being a dangerous compulsion, Chris had never inquired about his particular vice. Hell, looking at Ezra’s condo, car, and wardrobe, it was hard to see any downside to the issue. Ezra was a damn fine agent, a generous friend, and a decent man. That was all that mattered. Armed with that belief, he rang Ezra’s doorbell, and waited.

It took a while, but eventually the lock clicked, and the door opened. Ezra was hunched over like Quasimodo, pale and uncharacteristically rumpled. He peered at Chris with bleary eyes. “Mr. Larabee?”

“Jesus, Ezra. Are you sure you should be out of the hospital?”

“I am fine. Unfortunately, those analgesics they prescribed have rendered me slightly woozy.”

“Woozy?” Chris grinned and slid his arm beneath Ezra’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the couch.”

“Why, Mr. Larabee, I didn’t know you cared.” Ezra’s drawl was so pronounced that his r’s had completely disappeared. He leaned gratefully into Chris’ support and lay down with a pained sigh of relief when they reached the couch. “Thank you. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” he asked, and then sat up quickly. “Vin? Is Vin all right?” He sank back with slight moan.

“Easy, Ezra. He’s fine. Probably in better shape than you are at the moment.”

Ezra closed his eyes. “I am ... relieved to hear that, but now I truly am honored by this hospitable call.” He opened one green eye. “Unless of course, this is an official visit.”

Chris sat wearily. “Not official -- not yet. But there are questions that have to be answered, and I figure you’d rather answer to me than to Williams. I spoke to Orrin, and he’s sworn to back us up.”

“It sounds like I’ve been convicted without a trial.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

Ezra raised a brow. “Not that I doubt your intentions, Mr. Larabee, but I feel the hot breath of hounds in pursuit of a scapegoat on the back of my neck.”

“Ezra ...”

“Ask away, Torquemada.” He lay back, looking martyred, but serious in his answers. Chris listened for the most part, prodding occasionally for more detail, but there were few clues to the mystery of the betrayal. When Ezra looked beyond exhaustion, Chris stopped asking questions. He rose restlessly and arched his back until his vertebrae cracked.

“Sorry, Ezra. I didn’t mean to take the starch outta you.” He pulled a beige alpaca throw from the arm of the sofa and laid it over Ezra’s legs.

“I understand the necessity, of this inquisition, Mr. Larabee. I only wish I could have answered more of your questions.” He fell silent, twisted the fringe of the throw. “Might I ask if you believe me?”

The quiet, wistful question caused Chris to look at him sharply. “Jesus, Ezra. Of course, I believe you!”

“Will you tell Vin?”

“About this conversation?” Ezra nodded. “Only if you want me to.”

“He ought to know. What I didn’t know nearly killed him.”

“He doesn’t see it like that. He never would.”

“I see it like that,” Ezra said. “Would you take something to him?”

“Sure.”

“That package, over there.” Ezra pointed. “Something to help him while away the hours of stultifyin’ boredom in the hospital.”

Chris picked up the small box. “He’ll appreciate it.”

Ezra laughed. “Either that, or he will call down imprecations of doom on my head.”

Chris gave him a curious look, shook the package, and shrugged. “Whatever. You get some rest, Ez. You’re gonna need it.”

“I thank you for that cautionary warnin’, Mr. Larabee.” He yawned. “Close the door on the way out, if you don’t mind.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The headache Chris had been fighting all day blossomed into full maturity on his way to the hospital. By the time he found a parking place, located Vin, who had been moved out of intensive care and into a private room, and navigated the hospital corridors to find said room, he could scarcely see beyond the throbbing red haze that had descended over his vision. He stood outside Vin’s door, wilting.

“Chris?” A soft, concerned voice. A gentle hand on his arm. “Chris, are you all right?”

“Rain?” He tried to focus on Rain Jackson’s lovely face. Worried brown eyes peered into his.

“Yes. Are you sick? ” She laid a cool palm across his forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

“Headache. I haven’t had one like this in years.”

“When was the last time you had something to eat, something to drink other than alcohol or coffee?”

Chris honestly couldn’t remember. “I don’t know. This morning.”

Rain tucked her arm in his. “Come with me. I prescribe food, water, and I have some medication to help your headache.”

“I was going in to see Vin.”

“He’s resting. Half an hour won’t make any difference to him.” She led him to her office, went to a small refrigerator and took out a sandwich and a bottle of water. “It’s not fancy, but it should help.”

“I can’t eat your dinner.”

“Sure you can. I can get something from the cafeteria. Nothing those cooks can do to the food could possibly hurt me. I’m immune” She watched as Larabee yielded and unwrapped the sandwich. He seemed too weary to eat, and there was a fine tremor in his hands, those hands that she had never seen unsteady. He was being pushed to the brink by something. Nathan had told her some of what had transpired the night of the opera, and she had been watching over Vin’s condition closely. She knew that Larabee was closer to the sharpshooter than any of the other members of Team Seven and had seen the uncanny communication that existed between the two men. When either of them was hurting, the other felt every pain. The difference this time was that Vin was resting peacefully, while Chris looked like he hadn’t rested in days.

He finished the sandwich, drank the water and leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh. “Thanks, Rain. That helped.”

She handed him two pills. “These should improve matters considerably. But do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“I get off in an hour. Come home with me. Stay with Nathan and me tonight. You shouldn’t drive back to the ranch, and there’s no way I’m going to let you sleep on that bed of nails you call a couch at the office.”

He started to refuse, then realized that he needed what she was offering. Being alone would only lead to the temptation to drink himself to sleep, and spending the night on the couch would only aggravate his exhaustion. “Thank you, Rain. I’d like that.”

“Visit with Vin, and I’ll come by his room when my shift is over.”

She walked with him back to Vin’s room. Vin was sitting up, watching TV. The flickering light played across his face, deepening shadows. To Chris’ worried eyes, he looked too thin, too pale. He hesitated in the doorway, then backed off from the line of sight.

“Is he all right?” he asked Rain.

“He’s healing very well,” she reassured him. “He’s young, strong. His body will compensate for the blood loss quickly as long as he doesn’t push too hard. He hasn’t had any bleeding from his liver since the surgery. He should be out of here in a few days.”

“How close was it, Rain?” His voice was a low, grim thread of sound that sent a chill down her spine.

“Very close. The bullet just nicked his liver. If it had been a more devastating wound, I doubt he would be sitting here watching Bugs Bunny.” She drew a breath, “But he is. He’s here, he’s healing. You need to let go of that worry, Chris.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah, it ain’t like a thousand more won’t get in line to take its place.” He bent forward; his lips brushed her cheek. “Thanks, Rain. I ever tell you how glad I am you and Nathan found each other?”

“I’m a smart lady. I figured it out.” She patted his arm. “See you in a bit.” When it looked like Chris would argue, she added firmly, “Our spare bed has your name on it, Mr. Larabee, and you *will* be using it tonight. ”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

“Kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit ...” Elmer Fudd, wearing Viking horns and carrying a round shield, was swearing vengeance on Bugs, dressed as a Brunhilde. Until the other night, this was the sum and total of Vin’s exposure to opera, and as much as he had found himself enthralled by the glamour and tragedy of Tosca, he still preferred the overt silliness of Bugs and Elmer. Someday he’d have to record this and show it to Ezra. Might even make him laugh ...

He switched off the TV in time to hear voices outside his door. Rain and Chris. Chris sounded tired. Then the door opened and he came inside. Lord, he looked tired, too, Vin thought; like he was carrying the weight of the world on him. He recognized the draw of pain around Larabee’s mouth, the faint translucence of the skin around his eyes. Chris claimed to be as tough as old nails, but he was as vulnerable as any man to exhaustion and pain. He’d also deny it to the heavens if faced with it straight on. But Vin figured he’d earned the right to call Larabee’s bluff on that matter.

“Chris, ya look like I feel. Sit down b’fore ya fall down.”

“And a big howdy to you too, pard,” Chris growled and sank down in the chair. “Mouthy Texan.”

“Mouthy? Hell, half the time yer yellin’ at me ‘cause I ain’t talkin.”

Chris’ mouth quirked. “Glad t’see you’re feeling better.” Then seriously. “You had us real worried, Vin.”

The sharpshooter looked away from the warmth he saw in Chris’ eyes. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? It ain’t like you shot yourself.”

Vin shifted uncomfortably on the bed, and changed the subject. “How’s Ezra? He get home all right?”

“He’s hanging on. Wasn’t too happy to hear what Williams was saying about him.”

“You tell Orrin?”

“I tried.” Chris rose restlessly and paced to the window. He couldn’t see much, just darkness and the reflection in the glass from lights in the other hospital tower. “He said he’d stand by us.”

Vin sensed faint doubt behind the words. “You believe him?” he asked. This was serious if Chris wasn’t certain of Travis’ support. The two hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but mistrust had never been a problem. If Travis was siding with Williams, then Ezra was in a heap of trouble.

“Right now, I don’t know. Williams is looking to cause trouble for us -- I don’t know why. Technically, Williams is *my* superior, and Orrin has been a politician for a long time. Maybe he’s willing to sacrifice Ezra if he believes it is for the good of the team.”

“We cain’t be a team without Ezra,” Vin said in a hard, quiet voice. “He’s one of us.”

“Yeah, he is.” Chris remembered the package he’d set down when he came into Vin’s room. “He sent you this.” He handed it to Vin.

“What is it?”

“I’ll know when you do.” He watched, smiling slightly as Vin opened the package. The Texan loved presents; he obviously hadn’t had much experience with them in his hard life, and when he got one, was as eager as a six year-old to get through the wrappings to the box underneath. Underneath was a personal CD player and a recording of Tosca. Chris raised a brow. “Ain’t exactly your style, pard.”

“Hell, Larabee. How do you know I ain’t developed high-falutin’ tastes after hangin’ around with Ezra lately?”

“Have you?”

Vin gave a derisive chuff of laughter and slanted an amused glance at Larabee. “I ain’t lettin’ him truss me up in one a’ them suits again. But I kinda liked the music. And I never did get t’see the last act. Might be interested in knowin’ what happens.” He turned the jewel case over in his hands.

“Probably doesn’t have a happy ending.”

“Seems most of ‘em don’t. Even Bugs knows that,” he smiled, recalling the end of the Loony Tunes version of grand opera. He tugged at the plastic wrapping on the CD. “Damn things are glued up tighter’n Fort Knox.”

Chris pulled out his Swiss Army knife. “Here, make it easy on yourself.” He watched Vin carefully cut through the plastic and tape sealing the CD’s.

Vin examined each CD, frowning at the album liner. He shook his head, sighed, defeated by his dyslexia. “Cain’t do it, Chris. Words ‘r jist runnin’ all together. Reckon I’m tired.”

Chris took the paper from him. “Want me to read it?”

Vin saw the weariness in his face, the way Larabee’s body was slouched in the chair. “Nah, go home with Rain. I heard her offerin’ you a bed. Ya look like shit, old man.”

A lazy spark of anger lit Chris’ eyes. “Fine talk from a man who looks like all the blood’s been sucked outta him.” But he was relieved that he wouldn’t be forced to focus his eyes on the fine print. “Still got some time before she’s ready to leave. Mind if I stay on a bit?”

“You want the TV on?”

“No.”

“You mind if I listen to this?” Chris shook his head and slouched down further in the chair. He closed his eyes. Vin selected a CD and put it in the player. He slid the headphones on, dimmed the overhead light, and reclined his bed a bit. For a while, the music carried him along, then the threads of the melodies and the voices spun out into a thread of a dream, like silk from a spindle, and he fell asleep.

When Rain Jackson came into the room, both men were sleeping. She stood looking down at them. Chris, with the face of a fallen angel; bright and perilous, frightening at times in his intensity. Vin, dangerous in his own way, but at the moment vulnerable, and young, with a slight frown of pain still etched between his brows. She wondered what it was about these hard men that caught at her heart and made her ache inside. She was married to Nathan, but they were all her family; Nathan’s brothers in arms, and at times, in blood. She gently pulled the headphones from Vin’s ears, and turned off the CD player. He didn’t move as it slid from his lax fingers. Rain smiled, smoothed the hair back from his forehead and pulled the covers higher on his chest. Vin sighed, nestled deeper in the pillows, but stayed asleep.

She turned her attention to her fallen angel. “Chris?” She touched his shoulder. “Wake up.”

He sat upright, blinking at her owlishly. “What?”

“You fell asleep. Are you ready to leave?”

Chris ran a hand over his hair and scrubbed his eyes. “Yeah.” He gazed at Vin, and the expression Rain saw in his eyes made her throat ache. “He looks -- ” His voice, husky with fatigue and emotion, failed.

“He’s fine, Chris. And I think it’s time you got some real rest. Let’s go home.” She tucked his hand in her arm. “I’m driving.”

“Won’t argue with you there,” Chris sighed. He walked out with her into the cool evening air. He didn’t remember much of the drive to Nathan’s; didn’t remember finally crawling into bed in their spare room. He was only vaguely aware that Rain gave him more pain pills before she said goodnight. The last thing he did remember, was hearing Nathan’s deep voice welcoming Rain when he came home from a late night at the office. Chris wanted to ask why he was so late, but before the thought could take hold in his mind, sleep claimed him and carried him away.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

He woke in the middle of the night with a start, his heart thudding in his breast like he had been running a race and sweat beading on his brow. He didn’t remember his dream, only the feeling that he was alone in a cold mist. His mouth was dry as cotton, and he blamed the painkillers Rain had given him for the dream and the lingering lethargy and thirst. He stumbled out of bed, orienting himself to a place he had seen only in daylight.

He found the bathroom and turned on the light. The overhead fixture with its tulip-shaped glass shades shone down on his gaunt features; the cavernous shadows of his eyes and hollow cheeks. He turned the water on and, when it was steaming, splashed his face, then turned it to cold and repeated the action. He ran his wet fingers through his hair, smoothing the wayward licks, remembering how Sarah had laughed at his sleepy dishevelment. *Don’t go there, Larabee,* he told himself, and banished the thought. There was a clean glass on the sink, and he filled it and drank deeply to quench his thirst.

His jeans were folded on the foot of his bed. He pulled them on and, barefoot, padded downstairs to the quiet kitchen. The light over the sink shed a dim glow. Chris went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. His stomach was burning with acid and his ulcer medicine was at the ranch. It had been a long time since it had acted up, but it seemed the business with Williams was triggering another siege of pain and stress. First the headaches, and now this. He’d be a wreck in two weeks if this didn’t resolve itself.

He poured some milk in a glass and sat at the table, drinking it slowly. A brush against his lower leg made his hand jerk, and he laughed shakily as Rain’s cat, Bastet, wound her way around his ankles. The Abyssinian meowed, then leapt up on the narrow space of his lap, looking over the tabletop at the drops of milk that Chris had spilled when she had startled him. He dipped his finger in the puddle and offered it to Bastet. The rough rasp of her tongue made him smile. She bumped her head against his chin, then looked straight over his shoulder, gave an apologetic meow, and jumped off.

Nathan, standing in the doorway, laughed softly. “Never saw her sit on anybody’s lap but Rain’s,” he said. “She don’t even like me much.”

“It wasn’t me she was after, it was the milk. Hope I didn’t wake you, stumbling around in the dark.”

Nathan got a glass and sat down at the table across from Chris. “No. Just my damn empty stomach.”

“You were at the office kind of late tonight. Problems?”

Nathan hesitated. “Paperwork.”

“Paperwork kept you in the office until after midnight?” Chris raised a skeptical brow. “Buck left me a voice mail saying that he and JD finished up the paperwork from the case and handed it in to Orrin before they left the office today.” His eyes narrowed. “Anybody tell you it’s not a good idea to lie to your boss?”

Nathan looked at his glass of milk and sighed. “Wish this was somethin’ stronger.”

“Hell, I’m game,” Chris said. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

“Got whiskey in the den. C’mon.”

The two men settled into deep chairs. The whiskey tasted good, and at that point Chris didn’t care what it did to his stomach. “Tell me,” he said after several deep swallows had warmed him.

“I wasn’t lyin’ t’ya, Chris. I was doing paperwork. Williams was askin’ for the files from the D’Amico investigation. He wanted Ezra’s reports.”

“Shit.”

“Wasn’t anything I could do.” Nathan looked despondent, as if he had somehow let the team down.

Chris started laughing quietly. “Don’t blame yourself, Nate. You don’t think Ezra kept *everything* at the office, do you?”

The devils were dancing in Larabee’s eyes and Nathan choked down his last swallow of whiskey. “Damn, Chris!” His eyes were watering. “You think so?”

“For a gambler, Ezra doesn’t leave much to chance. I’d be willing to bet he’s got a copy of those files. Find out in the morning.” Chris drained his whisky. “Thanks for this.” He unfolded his long body from the chair. “See you in a few hours.”

Nathan corked the whiskey back up and stowed it behind the bar. He yawned. A few hours. Wasn’t much time for a man to catch up on his sleep. But at least he’d be spending those hours with Rain, not alone staring into the dark and worrying. Something told him that was what the rest of the night held for Chris Larabee.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Bells were ringing. Loud, insistent, and far too early for Ezra’s taste. One hand emerged from the covers, found the nightstand and fumbled for the phone. “’lo?” he mumbled, thinking that if Buck was on the other end of the line, he would have to shoot him the next time they met.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?”

“What?” Part of Ezra’s brain registered that it was not Buck on the phone, while the part that was still fogged with painkillers played a slow game of catch-up.

“The price of betrayal is death.” *Click.*

Ezra sat up, the pain in his midsection still sharp enough to make him feel vaguely nauseous. Or perhaps it was the phone call that made his heart pound and his stomach lurch. He reached for the recorder that he kept on his phone line, and pressed the replay button. The voice returned, disguised by some sort of electronic scrambling device, but clear enough to be understood. He listened, comprehension dawning slowly in his drug-fogged brain. He fell back against the pillows, his arm thrown over his eyes. As Vin would say, he was *sooo fucked.*

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

A nurse woke Vin at five to take his vital signs. A lab tech came at six to draw his blood. At seven, he was asked how often he had used the urinal during the night -- a question that had his cheeks burning with embarrassment -- and then at seven-thirty, breakfast came, delivered by a way too cheery food service worker. He was supposed to be resting. How the hell could he rest when every ten minutes someone wanted something from him?

And then his phone rang.

Tired, exasperated, and unhappy, he snatched it from the cradle. “Yeah?” he snapped.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?”

“Buck?” A low, cold laugh made Vin sit up too fast. “Who the hell is this?”

“The price of betrayal is death.” *Click.*

Vin looked at the receiver. He was in a hospital; that much had not been publicized. He knew Chris wouldn’t have allowed it to become common knowledge. But someone knew. Someone who made death threats. Vin pushed the disconnect button and punched in Ezra’s number.

Three rings, and Ezra’s voice mail came on. Vin listened impatiently to the recorded message. “Ez, if yer there, pick up. It’s important.”

“Mr. Tanner?” The undercover agent’s voice sounded uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Ya know anybody else sounds like me?” Vin asked.

A pause. “My apologies. I have been the recipient of one prank call already this morning.”

“Got news for ya. Don’t think it was a prank.”

“You, too?”

“Think we oughtta compare notes?” Vin said.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Watch yer back, Ezra.”

“I assure you, I shall exercise the utmost caution.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris finally fell into a deep sleep at 5am, only to be awakened at seven by Rain’s soft knock on the door. He unglued his eyelids. His headache was a lingering dull throb, and his stomach was still uneasy from last night’s whiskey. A shower helped. The mug of coffee he found on his nightstand when he came out of the bathroom made him feel nearly human. Rain had also set out one of Nathan’s dark T-shirts for him so he wouldn’t have to wear the his own from the day before. With a pang, he thought Sarah would have loved Rain. And then a brief passing jealousy, not of Nathan, but of the sweetness that a woman brought to a man’s life. His relationship with Mary Travis was an uneasy one, neither of them ready for commitment, and both with careers that demanded too much time and energy.

He buckled on his shoulder holster, cast a wry glance at his haggard reflection in the mirror, and went down to breakfast. Nathan was eating oatmeal and reading the morning paper. Rain was packing a lunch to take to the hospital. They both looked up when Chris came into the kitchen, and both wore identical expressions of concern.

Chris appreciated that more than he could say. But he was fine, and he said so, as he poured a second cup of coffee and joined Nathan at the table. Without asking, Rain set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. “Eat it,” she ordered gently when he made to push it away.

He did, and felt better for having something other than old whiskey and bile in his stomach. “You ready to go to the hospital?” he asked when he had finished.

“Anytime you are.” She stood behind Nathan, her hand resting tenderly on his shoulder. His big hand came up to cover hers. He didn’t even seem to be conscious of that fond gesture. “See you tonight, babe?”

“If my boss don’t keep me late,” he replied.

Chris shook his head. “That is a shameless ploy, Nathan.” He stood up, put his bowl in the dishwasher. “I’ll see you at the office after I talk to Vin.”

“Tell him to get his sorry ass outta the hospital.”

“Nathan!” Rain remonstrated. “I have a hard enough time keeping him there as it is, without you and Chris urging him to leave. You know he will sign himself out against medical advice with the least bit of encouragement.” She bent and kissed his cheek. “But I still love you.” She looked at her watch. “We’d better be on our way. My boss is almost as difficult as Nathan’s.” She winked at Chris.

“Later, Nate.” Chris plucked his jacket from the peg at the side door and followed Rain to the car. He was silent during the drive to the hospital, two lines of worry carving themselves deep between his brows. When she dropped him off by his truck, she pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. A prescription. For an antacid.

“Rain, I don’t --”

“Take it. Get it filled at the pharmacy. You need it. And *no* arguments.” When he opened his mouth to protest she stopped him. “What purpose will be served by your being miserable?” she asked. “Will it help Vin and Ezra?” She raised a brow, and he conceded the point.

“All right. I will follow doctor’s orders.”

“I’ll be checking up on you, Larabee.”

He laughed. Rain’s growl had mimicked Nathan’s to perfection. “Thanks for everything, doc.” She drove off and he checked his truck, a habit born of painful necessity. Never again would he assume any vehicle was safe until he did a walkaround.

When he was satisfied that the Ram was as he had left it the night before, he went to the pharmacy to fulfill his promise to Rain. With a pocketful of pills, and a fresh cup of coffee from the kiosk in the lobby, he arrived at Vin’s door and heard voices, one of them Ezra’s aristocratic drawl. He looked at his watch to confirm his belief that it was at least an hour earlier than Standish considered civilized.

He waited outside the door, listening for a moment, and didn’t like what he heard.

“Are you going to enlighten Mr. Larabee as to our mutual communication?” Ezra asked Vin.

A pause, as if Tanner were considering. Chris stepped inside the room. “I think *Mr. Larabee* would appreciate the enlightenment,” he said. “Boys.”

Ezra looked guilty. Vin merely raised an ironic brow. He greeted Chris with a brief nod. “C’mon in and join the party.”

“Morning, Ezra. You seem to be on the mend.”

“I am considerably improved, Mr. Larabee.”

Chris showed teeth in a smile. “Good. Then I won’t feel so guilty when I have to apply the thumb screws.”

“Hell, Chris. Ain’t no need t’git nasty. We’ll talk.” Vin shifted uncomfortably as he pushed himself upright. He was wary, defensive, and Chris sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh.

“What do I need to know?”

Vin looked at Ezra. “Go ahead. Play it for him.”

Reluctantly, Ezra took out the small tape recorder. Chris’s headache began a throbbing return. He rubbed the lines between his brows. The threats themselves, nonspecific as they were in nature, were only too specific in their targeting. Ezra’s phone number was unlisted and Chris had told no one outside of the bureau -- hell, outside of their team -- where Vin had been taken following the shooting. Someone knew. Shit.

“You were plannin’ on keeping this little secret all to yourselves?” Chris asked finally.

“I thought that if we compared notes we might be able to arrive at a consensus as to the identity of the caller.”

“Did you?” Chris asked, one brow aslant.

“We ain’t hardly had time,” Vin defended their actions. “And we figured we’d be savin’ you a hell of a lot of grief and tail-draggin’ work if we could.” All those words were too much for his still fragile strength and he fell silent.

Chris saw the color leave his face. Ezra, equally observant and nearly as tired, rose cautiously. “I will take this tape to Mr. Dunne, and see if he can’t work some of his digital magic on it. Mr. Larabee, my apologies for my misguided attempt to conceal this from you.”

Chris gave him a look clearly communicating that a repeat of that behavior would be a disaster, but when he spoke, his voice was soft. “Watch your back, Ezra. We don’t know who’s out there. And don’t overdo. The last thing I need is two agents in this damn hospital.”

“I will exercise more than my customary caution, in both of those matters,” he promised and with a salute to Vin, left the room.

Chris sat for a moment, studying Tanner’s face. His eyes were closed, but, judging from the tension in his body, he wasn’t sleeping. Hell, knowing Vin, he wouldn’t sleep as long as he felt the presence of a threat. He looked, and was, vulnerable; and that made Chris ache with worry for him. Vin was like a captive falcon stripped of his ability to fly. He had no defenses in this place, no strength. Chris considered an alternative, and came to a decision. He touched Vin’s hand. “I’ll be back in a bit. Let you recover from Ezra’s visit.”

A smile touched Vin’s mouth. “All them big words c’n sure take it out of a feller. Makes m’hair hurt.”

Chris went to the nurses’ station and asked them to page Rain. Then he sat on a bench and kept an eye on Vin’s door until she found him.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“How soon can we get him out of here?” He could see the objections rising in her eyes. “Rain, I’m not asking this as a friend, but as an ATF agent concerned with security.”

“Security? Has something happened?”

Chris nodded. “Both Vin and Ezra have gotten threatening phone calls.”

“Vin’s safe here,” she objected. “Hospital security --”

“Rain, listen to me. It’s not just Vin’s safety I’m worried about. The men making these threats have access to high-powered weapons and explosives and they don’t hesitate to use them. There could be a lot more people at risk here.” Chris rubbed his eyes. “If I can get Vin out of the hospital, it would be better for everyone.”

Being married to Nathan had taught Rain not to question Larabee’s judgments when it came to the dangerous jobs they held. She knew Chris would die for the members of his team, her husband included, but she also knew that he would do his best to keep them alive. She trusted him. She *had* to trust him.

“I’m not his attending physician, Chris.”

“Then find Elizabeth Stone. Talk to her. Get her to agree to release Vin. I’ll have Nathan detailed to take care of him at my ranch.”

Rain sighed and leaned against the wall, her arms folded. “It isn’t that simple. He suffered a Grade II trauma to the liver and the potential for hemorrhage still exists.”

“Potential or certainty?” Chris asked. He was as grave as she had ever seen him. “I’m tellin’ you, Rain, get him out of here, because I *am* certain that if you can’t protect him, you can’t protect anybody else.”

Rain pushed herself off the wall. “I’ll talk to Elizabeth.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Three hours later, Vin was sitting in Chris’s truck, the window open, enjoying the ride out to the ranch. The stitches from the laparoscopic surgery scarcely hurt at all anymore. He still felt as if he’d been delivered a good punch to the midsection, and when he stood up, the ground seemed ridiculously far away, but to be free of the hospital was the best medicine he could have been given.

He leaned his head back and glanced over at Chris. “Thanks, pard.”

“For?”

“Breakin’ me out of that jail. Feel a hundred percent better n’ I did a few hours ago.”

“Don’t start thinking you’re healed up just because I sprung ya,” Chris warned, his mouth smiling, but his eyes troubled. “You’ve got to take it real easy, no cheating. You obey Nathan to the letter, you understand?”

“Yes, mom.” Vin drew a deep breath, wincing as his diaphragm crowded his tender abdomen. “Still, feels real good bein’ out.” He settled in deeper against the cushions, folded his hands over his concave stomach and dozed while Chris drove.

Larabee woke him with a light touch against the side of his neck, just a faint pressure to rouse him gradually; he knew better than to grab or shake him from sleep. Vin opened his eyes, sighed. Stretched cautiously. “Almost there?”

“Just over the next rise.”

When they crested that rise, Chris’s ranch came into view; the ranch house and barn surrounded by aspen trees and green grass. Nestled at the foothills of the Rockies, it had a view of distant peaks, and was Vin’s idea of Paradise. It had felt like home the first time he had seen it and he still couldn’t tell if that was because it fulfilled his dreams of what a home ought to be, or if a hut in the desert would have served as well as long as Chris was there.

He looked over at Chris. That frown of worry that had settled between his brows from the moment he heard the threatening voice was carved deep, and a hard knot of muscle in his jaw betrayed his inner tension. “Ya look tired, Chris.”

Chris’s mouth twitched. “I am tired.” He lifted his shoulders and let them drop down again, in an attempt to release the tight muscles. “Bein’ home will help.” He turned down the driveway. Two vehicles were parked in front of the house; Nathan’s SUV, and Ezra’s latest rocket of a car. Seemed there was a variation of speed and power every six months.

Chris wheeled his car close to the front door and a moment later, Nathan was out the door, waiting to help Vin from the high front seat of the Ram. He caught Vin lightly about the waist, his strength giving the slender Texan the support he needed. “Damn, Vin. Ya only been in the hospital three days an’ already you lost weight.”

“Hell, you ever tasted that slop they pass off fer food?” he snorted. “Lean Cuisine ... that’s what they call it ... and don’t give ya enough to feed a bird.”

Chris caught Nathan’s expression. Worry, that the banter with Vin couldn’t temper, made creases at his eyes and Chris suddenly questioned his decision to take Vin out of the hospital. What if Rain’s worst case scenario happened? Then he thought of his own uncomfortable premonition. His instincts had always been good, and he’d regretted the times he had brushed them aside. Vin would be fine, and the hospital would be safe. He couldn’t accept anything else.

It took Nathan a few minutes to get Vin settled in the den. He had tried to persuade his patient to go to bed, but Tanner had refused, stubborn in his insistence that he couldn’t help with the investigation if he were isolated from the others. So he was tucked, pale but bright-eyed with the challenge of the hunt, into Chris’s big armchair. He felt alive, freed from the mind-numbing boredom of hospital routine. He was warm, as comfortable as he could be, with people he trusted. About the only thing that kept this from perfect was Ezra’s steady pacing across the room. “Yer wearin’ a hole in the floor, Ez,” he rasped finally.

Ezra halted abruptly, as if he were surprised to discover that he had been pacing. He started to make a reply, then decided it would be better to just stop pacing. He sat down on the sofa. Within a minute, his leg began bouncing. He caught Vin eyeing that nervous motion, and stilled instantly. “What?”

“Ezra, I ain’t never seen you so twitchy,” he commented. “Makin’ me jumpy.”

“I regret that I am disturbing the calm center of your existence, Mr. Tanner, but having my life threatened and my integrity challenged does make me just a trifle wary.” His chin came up defiantly, but there was a hint of defensive hurt in his green eyes. He knew the men he worked with trusted him, and in his own flawed, cynical way he trusted them. He was far from perfect, he was not above temptation, but not in this case. And no matter how often he went over every line of his files, every word in his taped conversations and phone calls, he could find nothing that could have betrayed his identity, or Vin’s, to D’Amico and his cohorts.

“I b’lieve ya,” Vin said quietly. “Reckon we’ll get this all figgered out.”

“Buck ‘n JD are here,” Nathan announced from his post by the window. “Maybe they’ve got some answers.”

They gathered in the den, Chris standing at Vin’s side with Nathan close by, the stethoscope draped around his neck an odd contrast with the shoulder holster and pistol he wore. Buck waited for everyone to settle before he began speaking. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his sports coat and paced, not out of nervous energy like Ezra, but like a professor ordering his thoughts before addressing his students. JD set out his tape recorder and pushed the play button. The disembodied voice floated out. “*The price of betrayal is death.*”

Ezra looked at Vin. The sharpshooter was leaning slightly forward, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The tape was cleaner than it had been; JD had filtered out some of the distortion, but judging from the general lack of reaction on Vin’s face, he did not recognize the voice. Unfortunately, neither did Ezra.

Realizing that while he had been watching Vin, everyone else was looking at him, Ezra shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Vin sank back into the chair. “Hell, so much fer easy.” He rubbed his eyes. “Prob’ly was too much to hope fer, anyways.”

Buck spoke into the dispirited silence. “We tried to trace the call. All we can figure is it came from a cell phone. Could have been made from anywhere in Denver.”

“What about background noise. Have you been able to filter that out?” Chris asked JD.

“I tried, but there wasn’t much to filter out. The only distinct sound other than static was what might have been a motor running, like the call was made from a car.” The young man shrugged. “Sorry, Chris. I did my best.”

“I know.” He frowned. “We’ll have to start from someplace else. Ezra, give Buck your files.”

“I have gone over them with a fine-toothed comb, Mr. Larabee --” Ezra started objecting.

Chris held up his hand. “Easy, Ezra. I’m just saying that fresh eyes might spot something you’ve been too close to see. You up to going over the night of the opera with us?”

Ezra shrugged. “I don’t know what I can tell you that you don’t already know. I had no indication that anything was wrong -- that D’Amico suspected I wasn’t what I had represented myself to be.”

“Far as I could see, that’s true,” Vin said quietly. “First inkling I got was when he and Ezra disappeared before the second intermission.”

“How *did* you know?” Ezra asked curiously.

“Don’t know. I’s watchin’ the show and somethin’ jist clicked, right about the time that Scarpia feller figured he was gonna play the hero false. Seemed almost like D’Amico picked that opera on purpose.”

Ezra paled. “Good Lord, I never thought of it in that particular light. That means ...” he faltered, looked away from Chris like he’d done something inexcusable.

“Means D’Amico knew ‘bout ya fer a while,” Vin interjected. “Means someone tipped him off.”

“Who?” JD asked. “How? I mean, we sure didn’t know -- all that surveillance, all the wiretapping and stakeouts -- I never picked anything up.”

Buck laid a hand on JD’s shoulder. “Ain’t your fault, kid. Chris, this is goin’ a lot deeper, and gettin’ a lot dirtier than we ever thought.”

Chris nodded. “Seems like it.” He looked at Ezra, wilting in the corner of the couch, and Vin, whose earlier strength appeared to have reached its limits. “Seems like we’ve done all we can do right now. Buck, take Ezra’s files. Go over them with Josiah and JD, see if you can pick anything out of them that’s been missed.” He rubbed at the lines between his brows and the headache that had taken up permanent residence there. “See ya in the morning.” When he caught Ezra making a move to get up from the couch, he pointed a forefinger at him. “You’re staying the night, Ezra. You’re in no shape to be driving around Denver.”

“I am perfectly capable of driving myself home.”

“Are you perfectly capable of fighting off any of D’Amico’s goons that might be watching your place?”

Ezra winced, his ribs giving a vicious twinge as he tried to sit up. He gasped and sat back down. He looked at Nathan, realized that he would get no support from him, and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Larabee. I appreciate it.”

“Chris, you wanna help me get Vin off to bed?” Nathan asked. “He’s been up long enough.”

“I’m fine,” Vin said in a voice that had the force of a will o’wisp.

“Yeah, and I’m Nettie Wells. C’mon, Tanner. No use fightin’ me on this ‘cause you ain’t gonna win.” He took one side, Chris the other, and they carefully maneuvered Vin out of the chair and down the hall to the spare bedroom.

Chris left while Nathan settled the injured sharpshooter into bed and tended to him. He went to the kitchen, heated up a pot of leftover spaghetti from the weekend, popped in a loaf of ready-made garlic bread, opened a bag of salad, and a bottle of wine.

“Why, Mr. Larabee, is there no end to your talents?” Ezra drawled from the doorway.

“Apparently not,” Chris grinned. “You hungry?”

“I could eat.” He slid into a chair at the table.

Chris poured a glass of wine. “Don’t know that this is your usual vintage.” He squinted at the label, “I understand this is a ‘serviceable’ Chianti, according to the wine expert at the grocery store.”

“Wine expert?” Ezra raised a brow.

“Checkout girl.”

“Serviceable?”

“She said it wouldn’t peel the enamel off my teeth.”

“Charmin’.” He held the glass up. “Cheers, Mr. Larabee. At this point, I doubt I would care if it was battery acid.” He took a sip, expecting the worst, and was surprised that it was at least drinkable. “It will serve the purpose,” he said wryly.

“You shouldn’t be drinkin’ that, Ezra,” Nathan said as he came into the kitchen. “But I won’t stop ya if you pour me a glass.”

“Stay for dinner?” Chris asked.

“Rain’s working late.”

“How’s Vin?”

“Resting. Don’t know if he’s gonna sleep or not. His mind’s goin’ a mile a minute, you can see it in his eyes.”

The three men sat at the table, nearly silent for a while, each processing the information they had heard that day. Ezra kept replaying the phone call in his mind, both the original, and the tape JD had cleaned up. There was nothing there that he could identify. Not the man, not the anonymous white noise in the background. He looked at Nathan, and could see the worry in his dark eyes; supposed it was mostly over Vin, and the guilt that had dogged him since that night surged again, making him set his fork down and rise from the table, unable to eat another bite. “If you will excuse me, I am feelin’ somewhat weary.”

Nathan frowned at him, concerned even though Ezra seemed to be mending. His real worry was focused on the sharpshooter. Vin was stubborn, but he was hurting. He was weak; the blood counts Rain had showed him from the hospital were low enough to make Nathan wonder what sort of leverage she had used to get Elizabeth Stone to spring Tanner. He suspected Chris knew. Hell, he suspected Chris was responsible. He just didn’t know if Chris could justify the risk to Vin’s life and health by pulling him out of the hospital.

Chris set his wineglass down with a sigh. “Nate, you’re staring daggers at me, and I’d sure like to know why.”

“I ain’t angry, Chris. Just wonderin’ if you know what you were doing to Vin. Takin’ him out of the hospital, the shape he’s in.”

“Do you think he’d be better off with D’Amico’s hired guns knowing where he is, knowing he’s helpless? And if Vin was moved ten times a day, do you think they’d hesitate to take out a whole floor just to get to him? Even if they trace him, at least here he’s got protection.”

“Something goes wrong, D’Amico’s goons might be the least of his worries.”

Chris looked long and hard into Nathan’s dark, concerned eyes. “You’re asking me to chose a chance over a certainty. Ezra would give you those odds,” he said. “Vin’ll be all right. He’s tough.”

“Sometimes tough ain’t enough,” Nathan said. “I’m gonna see if he’s sleepin’ yet.”

Chris stared into his nearly empty wineglass, then drained it with a flick of his wrist. The sun, which had illuminated the kitchen, sank behind the mountains, and the light grew blue and dim. Wearily, he stood and stretched, every muscle aching in protest. He turned the light on over the sink, stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, and when he had finished, went out to the barn, finding some ease in the daily chores of the ranch. Pony and Peso didn’t make any demands he couldn’t satisfy, they didn’t ask questions he couldn’t answer. He fed them, gave each a treat; a carrot for Pony, and a molasses cookie for Peso’s sweet tooth. He stayed out there for a while, letting the peace seep into his heart and mind before he returned to the quiet house.


	2. Part Two

Part Two

The kitchen was dark, silent but for the hum of the refrigerator. Vin knew his way around well enough not to need more light than shed by the lamp over the sink, and his movements were by nature nearly soundless. He opened the refrigerator door, took out butter and a package of American cheese. He put the butter in the microwave to soften it, got out two slices of bread, and tried not to let the pots and pans rattle too much when he pulled out a frying pan. He made a cheese sandwich, buttered it, and put it in the frying pan to grill.

He still felt as if he was about to topple over with every step, but he was hungry, and he couldn’t sleep, not with that damn phone call playing over and over in his head. He reached for a spatula to flip his sandwich, and that movement sent a wave of pain through his midsection. He tucked his arm close to his side and tried to breathe through the hurt.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Chris asked from the doorway. When he saw Vin hunched over and protecting his middle, he crossed the floor, caught him around the waist, and guided him to a chair. “Well?”

“I’s fixin’ myself somethin’ t’eat. What else does it look like?” Vin wheezed. “An’ I was doin’ jist fine ‘til ya snuck up on me.”

He looked so disgruntled that Chris had to chuckle. “You keep tellin’ yourself that while I finish this up for you.” He went to the stove, flipped the sandwich in time to keep it from burning, and then when it was toasted, put it on a plate and set it in front of Vin. “You want something to drink?”

“Coke?” he asked hopefully.

“Yeah, like you *need* caffeine.” He got a can of ginger ale from the refrigerator. “Try this.”

Vin gave Chris a hint of a grin. “Thanks, pard.” He started on his sandwich, surprised that it tasted as good as it did. He had merely wanted to fill the hollow in his stomach and found himself enjoying his food. When he had finished, he wiped the buttery crumbs from his mouth and leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh.

“Better?” Chris asked.

“Thank God they didn’t shoot me in my stomach. Still hurts like a sonofabitch, though.”

Chris’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Tanner. His fine-boned features were haggard, his curve of his slender body betraying how badly he was hurting. Pain shadowed his eyes, drew his skin taut over his cheekbones, lent tension to the set of his shoulders. “You want me to wake Nathan?”

Vin shook his head. “Nah. Jist git me back t’bed and I’ll keep. I’m feelin’ better than I was, Larabee, so stop lookin’ at me like I got one foot in the grave.”

Chris went to his side, took the younger man’s light weight against his hip, and together they made a slow progress back to the bedroom. He lowered Vin to the mattress and covered him with a blanket. “You warm enough?”

“Yeah.” His head moved a bit restlessly on the pillow. “Wish I could keep that damn phone call from naggin’ at me.”

“You didn’t recognize the voice?”

“Wasn’t the voice. Seemed kinda funny -- never figured any of D’Amico’s gang t’sound like Ezra. Figured they’d sound more like the Godfather.”

Chris looked down at him, his mind working. “You think?”

“Ask Ezra. He’d know.” Vin yawned. “Reckon I’ll sleep now. Thanks, Chris.”

“G’night, partner.” Chris tossed a knit throw on the foot of the bed. “Keep warm.”

Vin mumbled a sleepy reply and drifted off. Chris closed the door quietly. Maybe Vin had something there, with his assessment of the caller’s manner of speech. But what it meant, Chris couldn’t say. Maybe Josiah would have some ideas in the morning. Chris went to his bedroom, stripped, and rolled into bed. His body ached, his head hurt, his ulcer was making its presence known despite the medicine Rain had prescribed, and dawn wasn’t more than a few hours away.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra appeared at breakfast the next morning, slacks pressed, shirt crisp, a tie perfectly coordinated to the colors of his wardrobe. Only the faint shadows beneath his eyes testified to his ordeal. Chris cast a slightly jaundiced eye over his ensemble. “Ezra, someday somebody is gonna kill you just for making them feel like an unmade bed.”

“Surely not you, Mr. Larabee. While some might consider your wardrobe too subdued for their tastes, I find basic black to be always appropriate. And, it is an excellent camouflage for less than perfectly pressed apparel.”

“Hell, Ezra. I don’t know if I should be insulted or flattered.” He poured two mugs of coffee and joined him at the table. “Vin said something mighty interesting last night. He’d been replaying that phone call, said that it just didn’t sound right. He said the way the caller spoke seemed too refined for one of D’Amico’s crew. Did you notice that?”

Ezra swallowed thoughtfully. “Mr. Tanner’s powers of observation are truly astonishin’ at times. I was listening so carefully to the words that I completely missed the significance of the phrasing.”

“Then you agree?”

“Obviously.”

“Let’s get to the office. See if Josiah’s come up with something.” For the first time since the shooting, Chris felt a stirring of hope that they might actually get out of this mess without further damage.

He looked in on Vin. Still asleep, but easy and relaxed. Nathan was sitting in the chair by his bed. He gave Chris a tired nod. “How is he doing, Nate?” Chris whispered.

“Good. No fever, normal blood pressure. No signs of infection.”

“You keep your eye on him,” Chris said. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“Good luck, Chris.”

“Thanks. I have a feeling we’re gonna need it.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Buck, JD, Josiah, and Ezra gathered in Chris’s office. Josiah dropped Ezra’s files on the desktop, folded his arms, and shook his head. Chris’s stomach roiled. “Well?” he asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Nothing. Not a damned thing. I looked at every word, turned ‘em inside out and upside down.”

“Vin thought the caller might not be one of D’Amico’s men. He said the way he spoke struck him as being too cultured.”

“Or it might just be a stereotype,” Josiah rumbled, but with a smile “Ain’t much that escapes that boy.” He hitched a hip on a corner of Chris’s desk. “However, he might be right about this. I didn’t find any evidence that D’Amico figured Ezra’s cover on his own. And, Ezra was not at fault here, Chris. Hell, if I didn’t know who he was, I wouldn’t have thought him to be anything but what he claimed to be.”

“So you think it was internal?” Buck asked.

“I think we have a big problem,” Josiah confirmed.

Chris knew who his immediate suspicion would fall on, but to make accusations against another agent was tantamount to career suicide, and he’d worked too long and hard to get where he was without having ironclad proof to support his case. He didn’t like Williams, but that was no reason to believe he was responsible for Ezra’s betrayal to D’Amico.

He looked at his team, seeing in all of them the same grim determination that he felt in his heart. “JD, I want everything you can dig up on Williams and his team. You’ll have to work after hours from home and use every back door you can think of without alerting anyone. Josiah, he’s gonna need some analysis on what he finds. Buck, you know some of Williams’s men, right?”

“I know ‘em. Don’t like ‘em all.” Buck did not seem to be pleased with Chris’s line of thought. “Now, Chris --”

“Pretend you do,” Chris cut him off with a direct order. “You’re the only one of us who hasn’t ruffled Williams’s feathers, and I need you to keep the door open.”

“Only long enough fer you to bust through, pard,” Buck grimaced.

“That’s all I need.”

“And what, pray tell, is my place in this grand scheme of things?” Ezra drawled.

Chris gave him a hard look. “Your place is staying alive.”

Ezra sank back in his chair. “In that matter, I would be only too glad to oblige you, Mr. Larabee.”

Chris’s beeper buzzed against his hip, and he looked at the display. “It’s Orrin.” He looked at his team, saw the speculation in their eyes and the concern behind it. “You know where to find me if anything comes up.” He went into his office to return Travis’s call, only to look up and see Buck standing in the doorway. He shook his head, pointed Buck back to the outer office. Instead, Wilmington came inside and shut the door.

“Orrin?” He listened. “I’ll be there. He’s out of the hospital. Yeah, that was fast. Yes, I will.” He hung up the phone and scowled at Buck. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re supposed to obey your boss?” he asked.

“I’d have left if it was a classified conversation,” Buck said mildly. “What’s happenin’?”

“Meeting with Orrin in fifteen minutes. He didn’t give me any hints.”

“It’s Williams, isn’t it?”

“Hell, Buck! Just because I don’t like the man doesn’t make him guilty.”

“Jist makes him a prime candidate for suspicion -- And don’t tell me that he doesn’t make you gag like the smell of rotten garbage.” Buck’s dark brows rose, and Chris couldn’t deny that he was right.

He stood up. “I have to get up to Travis’s.”

“You watch your back up there, Chris. Ain’t gonna have me ‘r Josiah there to stand up with you.”

Chris grinned. “I’ll remember that when I’m reaching for Williams’s throat.” He threw his jacket over his shoulders and left Buck frowning at his retreating back.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

To Chris’s surprise, Travis was alone in his office. He looked up from the papers on his desk when his secretary announced Chris’s arrival. “Have a seat, Chris.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose where his reading glasses had left deep marks. “Tell me about Vin.”

Chris sat forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. “What do you want me to say? That he’s all right? He’s not. He’s at my place when he should still be hospitalized, because if he moves too fast or does too much, he could rip open that repair in his liver and bleed to death. And do you know why he isn’t in the hospital? Because somebody found out where he was and threatened him -- in the hospital! Jesus, Orrin -- what the hell is going on here?”

Travis’s face darkened at that news. “What kind of threat?”

“Nothing specific. But ... Ezra received the same threatening call. Now you tell me how they found out where Vin was hospitalized when you *know* I don’t let that sort of information out. Or how they got Ezra’s very private, *unlisted* phone number.”

“D’Amico?”

Chris snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought at first, but D’Amico’s people don’t make threats -- they act.”

“If not D’Amico, then who?” Travis asked, but not out of puzzlement. He was telling Chris to make a case. And he couldn’t. Not yet.

Chris regarded Travis steadily. “I don’t have proof, just suspicions.”

“Williams?”

“Maybe. Maybe someone on his team. Maybe ...” Chris dragged his hand through his hair. “Christ, Orrin. I don’t have anything concrete, just my instincts telling me something ain’t right.”

Travis rose from his desk and went to his window. He looked out over the city. The smog was heavy, obscuring the horizon. “I trust your instincts,” he said quietly. “Do what you need to do.”

“I take it this is all *sub rosa.*” Chris’s voice was grim.

“It has to be,” Orrin replied. “But you bring me absolute proof, and I will back you up all the way to the Attorney General if you need it.”

Chris rose from the chair and went to stand next to Orrin. “Thank you.” He held out his hand and Travis took it in a firm clasp.

“Good luck, Chris.”

“We’ll need it.”

Travis watched him out the door. He didn’t like what he was asking Chris to do, and the risks both personal and professional were daunting. He wouldn’t have asked it -- couldn’t have asked it -- of another man, or another team. These seven men of unique abilities and unquestioning loyalty were not expendable. But they were vulnerable. And someone had discovered where to strike them hard.

 

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris returned to the office and briefed the team on Travis’s promise. Having the AD in their corner might not be free ride for the sort of work they were planning, but it was a boost to morale, and a relief that they were not undermining Travis’s authority to pursue their own investigation. When he had finished, he retreated once again to his office, a headache building and his ulcer burning in his stomach. He lay full-length on his couch and waited for his pain to subside to a bearable level.

When the office door opened, he groaned. “Go away.”

“A civil greetin’ as always, Mr. Larabee.” Ezra eased into the office and sat down.

Chris pushed himself upright. “Sorry, Ezra. Misery got the best of me.”

“As it will of all of us at some time or another.” He crossed his legs and swung one elegantly booted foot. “How much of a carte blanche do we have from AD Travis?”

“Ezra, right now I’m seeing stars and my stomach feels like I’ve drunk a quart of battery acid, so can we please get right to the point of this conversation before I pass out or throw up?”

Ezra went to the filing cabinet and opened the top drawer where Chris kept a stash of painkillers and antacid. He shook out three Extra-strength Tylenol and a dose of his prescription, poured a glass of water from the pitcher on Chris’s desk and stood over the couch.

“Your medications?”

Chris looked up at him, took the pills, and drank the water. “Why are you doing this, Ezra?” He lay back down, grateful and hurting.

“Because if I am about to stroll back into the lion’s den, I want to be certain that you know where I am and what I am doing.”

Chris sat up fast. “Hold on, Ezra -- what did you say?”

“I received a phone call from D’Amico’s right hand man. He wants to meet me.”

“He wants to kill you, more like,” Chris said.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Ezra ...” Chris groaned and put a hand to his aching head. “I don’t want you to make a move.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

He didn’t. He couldn’t think, not now. “When does he want to meet?”

“Friday night.”

“Where?”

“Caruso’s.”

Caruso’s was Denver’s most expensive Italian restaurant. It was not the sort of place to arrange a hit. Chris rubbed his eyes. “Tell him yes. I’ll work some sort of protection out, Ezra.”

Standish rose and looked down at him. “I didn’t have to ask,” he said quietly.

Chris’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. “Thanks, Ezra.”

“A meal at Caruso’s is payment enough, Mr. Larabee.” He gave Chris a jaunty salute and left the office.

After a while, the pain meds and antacid kicked in, and Chris pushed himself upright. He felt sluggish, tired, and he knew he had to get back to the ranch before the Tylenol wore off -- at the moment it was holding his migraine at bay, but he knew it would descend full force without the medicine he’d left at home. The outer office was quiet. Looked like everyone had gone to lunch. Chris picked up his jacket from where he had laid it across Buck’s desk. He scrawled a note for Buck and left the office, his eyes shielded from the agonizing glare of the sun by dark glasses.

The drive to the ranch seemed endless; every bump and patch of rough road sent pain like shards of glass into his skull. Just when he thought he’d be forced to leave the road and call Nathan for a rescue, he realized he was nearly home. He wheeled into the driveway, braked too hard, and skidded to a halt. He opened the door in time to vomit. He was still bent over, still gasping, when he felt a strong arm catch him around the waist, and he knew Nathan was there, half-carrying him up the steps and into the house. He felt himself being lowered to the couch in the den, and felt someone -- Nathan -- cover his shivering body with an afghan. He heard footsteps, felt his sleeve being pushed up, a needle stick, then quickly, blessed relief from the pain in his head.

When he opened his eyes, it was nearly dusk. He turned his head slightly. The lamp next to the big recliner was turned low, and Vin was sitting there, a book in his hands. He was slowly turning the pages, his brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips moved. But he looked up as if Chris had said his name. “Hey, cowboy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Chris whispered, waiting for the pain to racket through his head. But it didn’t, just a ghost of a throb. “What are you doing out of bed?” he asked, the sharpness of the question blunted by his weak voice.

Vin chuckled. “Looks like I’m in better shape ‘n you, Larabee. ‘N before ya get all huffy, Nate gave me the go-ahead. It ain’t like I’m ridin’ Peso and ropin’ calves, ya know.” He got out of the chair, still moving stiffly. He went to the wet bar, filled a glass with water and brought it over to the couch. “Nate said I’s t’make sure you drank plenty of water when ya woke up.”

“Where is he?”

“I told him t’go home fer a few hours. I promised I’d take it easy, an’ that’s what I’ve been doin’.” He sat next to Chris and waited as he pushed himself to a semi-upright position. “Here’s yer water.”

It tasted cool, sweet, and Chris drank it down, savoring every swallow. He swung his legs to the floor and tried to stand up. Vin was right there with him, a shoulder to lean on until he was steady. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. He gave Vin a twisted smile. “Don’t know who’s holding who up.”

Vin grinned at him. “Hell, if either one of us backed off, I reckon the other would fall over. So, where’d ya wanna go?”

“Bathroom.” He went inside, Vin leaned against the wall and waited. Then they headed towards the kitchen. Chris sat at the table, while Vin made a pot of tea and put some canned chicken soup on to heat. He ladled out two bowls, set out mugs of tea and added sugar to them both, over Chris’s protest.

“Drink it,” Vin ordered, and seemed surprised when Chris did, though not as surprised as Chris was to not only drink it, but like it. After he had eaten the soup, he sat back in his chair, his hands clasped over his stomach.

Vin leaned forward. “Feelin’ up to tellin’ me what did this to ya, partner?”

“Stress. God, it’s been a long time since I was knocked down like this, though.”

“Migraine?”

“Big time.” He drank some more tea, let the warmth settle into the core of him. Then he told Vin about the meeting with Travis, and Ezra’s proposed rendezvous with D’Amico’s man. Vin listened intently, not saying much, but clearly thinking hard.

“Friday?’

“Yeah, at Caruso’s.”

“Pretty high-rent for a meeting.” His eyes were glittering in the dim light. “Ain’t exactly my style.”

Chris sat up. “Your style?”

“Hell, y’ain’t lettin’ Ezra go in there alone, are ya?”

“Hell, no! But you’re not gonna be there, Vin. You can’t.” He saw the rebellion flare in those eyes.

“Who else?” Vin asked. “Get me in there, Chris. I’ll jist sit at a table and watch.”

Chris shook his head. “Are you trying to give me *another* migraine, Tanner?”

“I’m jist trying to make yer life easier, Larabee.” He grinned, but his eyes were serious. “It ain’t jist Ezra involved in this. I’s the one bleedin’ on the ground, remember?”

Chris glared. “*I* remember, but it seems you’ve forgotten -- you’ll be at Caruso’s the day that hell freezes over, pard.”

“Then I reckon Satan’ll be wearin’ his overcoat, ‘cause I ain’t sittin’ here while Ezra’s eatin’ his last meal.” Vin stood up, restless, wincing slightly.

“Dammit, Tanner! Don’t make me pull rank --”

Vin gave him a wry smile. “Chris, you ‘n me both know that if I wanna be there, y’ain’t gonna be able to stop me, so ya’d might as well *let* me be there. Who are ya gonna send? They already know I’m with Ezra. They *know* how good I am. I already put the fear of that in ‘em, and I jist don’t see ‘em showin’ up at Caruso’s aimin’ to take us down. They’re lookin’ to deal something -- you know that’s gotta be in their minds. I swear on a stack a’ bibles that I won’t do anything but let them see me watchin’ Ezra’s back.”

The trouble with Vin Tanner was that his mind was as lethal as his rifle. Chris was out-argued and disarmed before he’d had a chance to mount a defense. He thrust his fingers through his hair, rose, and paced a few steps. Vin lounged against the counter, long legs crossed at the ankles. Chris eyed him, looking for signs of illness and pain. Tanner was still pale, but, aside from that slight stiffness when he moved quickly, seemed much better than he had been. And what he said made so much Goddamned sense that it was hard to argue his point.

Chris sighed. “All right -- but only if you get a medical clearance -- and I don’t mean from Nathan.”

Vin nodded. “That’s fair. Thanks, Chris.”

“If you make me regret this, Vin ...”

Chris’s warning sent a cold chill up his spine, yet beneath that icy green study, there was concern and friendship to warm Vin’s soul. “Ya won’t, I swear it.” He held out his hand, and Chris’s strong fingers clasped his forearm.

“I’ll kill you myself, if you do,” he promised.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

On Thursday, Vin sauntered into the office and laid a sheet of paper on Chris’s desk. Chris had been staring at his computer monitor, reading JD’s report on Williams’s past history with the Treasury department. He looked up, blinking. “What are you doing here?”

Tanner grinned at him. “Got my permission slip from the doctor. Go ahead, read it.”

Chris unfolded the paper. He couldn’t argue. Two doctors, Rain and Elizabeth Stone had signed off on Vin’s Friday night excursion. He frowned at it suspiciously, reading the words. “You’re cleared to have dinner at Caruso’s. Damn it, Tanner! You didn’t tell them you were going there in an official capacity.”

Vin sat down on Chris’s couch. “I told them I was going to dinner with Ezra. They didn’t ask if I was gonna carry a gun, so I didn’t tell ‘em I was.”

Chris started dialing his phone, only to have Vin reach out, quick and deadly, and grasp his arm, stopping him. “Don’t, Chris.”

The underlying threat in Tanner’s soft voice set him back in his chair. His mouth curled. “Or what?”

Vin’s eyes glinted. “Ain’t no *or what*. I done what y’asked. Got two docs to say I’m fit. And I *am* gonna be at Caruso’s Friday night, yer blessing or not.”

“If you’re asking for blessings, talk to Josiah.” But as quickly as it had come, his anger drained away. He couldn’t help that the grim curl to his mouth turned into a smile. “I should drag your sorry ass in front of Orrin Travis for insubordination.”

Vin gave a mocking shiver. “Sounds downright wicked.” He leaned forward on Chris’s desk, earnestly, his voice even quieter than it had been. “I ain’t stupid, Chris. There’s chances, and there’s chances. This ... this ain’t a big deal. If I thought it was, and I didn’t feel up to it, I wouldn’t put Ezra’s life on the line jist t’save my pride.”

Chris studied him for a moment, then reached for his phone once again. He punched in an extension number, waited. “Ezra. In here, please.” And glowered at Vin’s half-smile.

Ezra knocked and came in, his jacket slung over his shoulders. “You rang?”

“Sit down.” A chestnut brow lifted quizzically, but Standish didn’t say a word. Chris steepled his fingers. “About Friday night. Did you set it up?”

“I said I would meet Ronnie Fazio at eight o’clock.”

“Ronnie Fazio? The little shit who’s been up on weapons charges more times than I c’n count?” Vin snorted. “Eatin’ at Caruso’s?”

Ezra chuckled. “A frightenin’ thought, I admit. One would scarcely believe him capable of so delicate a skill as wielding a fork.”

“That don’t say much for D’Amico’s organization, if Fazio’s takin’ charge.”

“Could be he’s a front for the real power,” Chris suggested and Ezra shrugged.

“I expect you are right in that assumption, Mr. Larabee. But we won’t find out until Friday.”

“Vin is going to be there.”

Ezra’s brow flew up again. “In plain sight?”

“That’s the idea, Ez.”

“Not to disillusion you, but Caruso’s on a Friday night is a hard ticket.”

Chris grinned. “Not when you know the right people.” He punched in another series of numbers on his phone. When Orrin Travis answered, Chris related what was planned for Friday evening and asked if he could arrange for Vin to have a table with a clear line of sight to Ronnie Fazio’s. A few terse phrases later, he hung up. “You’re set.”

Ezra was impressed into silence. Vin just sat back with a satisfied look on his face. “Don’t make me regret this,” Chris warned, and there was not a trace of levity in his voice.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Caruso’s was located in a century old brick building a block up from the Buell theater where the Opera had been performed. On a Friday night, the parking lot was filled with luxury sedans, SUV’s, and sports cars with sticker prices that would have fed the residents of Purgatorio for a month. Vin had parked his Jeep two blocks away and walked. He was definitely outclassed here.

The restaurant foyer harkened back to Denver’s golden past -- gilt-framed mirrors, carved woodwork picked out in gold leaf, pale gold carpeting. It was like being in a luxurious vault. Vin checked his appearance in one of the mirrors. He guessed he looked all right. His best gray slacks, a pale gray and white striped shirt, a silk tie patterned in white and gold on a gray background, and one of Ezra’s splendidly tailored sports coats in a supple dark gray fabric that felt like butter beneath his fingers. Cashmere ... that’s what the label said, and Vin figured he might as well enjoy it, because he sure as hell wasn’t ever gonna have a coat like that in his lifetime.

A party of three elegantly dressed couples came into the reflection, and Vin was startled to realize that he didn’t look that much different than they did -- his hair was longer, and there was a hard set to his shoulders and a wary look in his eyes that he blinked away. No reason for it to show. He rotated his shoulders slightly to ease the tension and caught one of the women looking at him. He blushed, and she smiled.

A man in a tuxedo approached Vin. He held out his hand in a gesture, indicating that Vin should follow him. “Signore Tanner?”

“Yes.”

“Your table is ready.” Only the faintest hesitation before he followed the maitre d’ betrayed Vin’s unfamiliarity with the situation. The dining room had two levels, the upper one accessed by a short flight of six steps. He was shown to a table next to the wrought iron and gilt railing guarding the drop-off to the lower level. The man pulled out a chair, waited for Vin to seat himself, and then with the most perfect of touches slid the chair in just the right amount. He reached over Vin’s shoulder, plucked the starched peak of the napkin from in front of him, snapped it open, and laid it on Vin’s lap.

There was a red leather menu on the table. Vin eyed it as if it were a snake about to strike. He opened it, stared at it. Hell, it wasn’t just the words, the damn thing was printed in Italian. That was one obstacle he hadn’t considered. Damn Ezra anyway. He might have given him a warning. He could face a sniper on a cold, moonless night with less trepidation than he felt at the sight of that menu.

“Signore?” Vin looked up. A tuxedoed waiter was standing next to the table. “My name is Gianni, and I will be your server this evening.”

“Um, I ain’t --” Vin took a breath. “I haven’t looked at the menu.”

“Ah, Signore Travis called ahead and suggested some of his favorite selections for you, if you care to try them?”

Some of Vin’s tension left him. “I reckon I can trust him,” he smiled. “Thank you.” And a silent thanks to Orrin for thinking of his dyslexia, not to mention the language gap. He settled back and surveyed the floor below him. His eyes narrowed. The table below him and just slightly to his left was set for three, and there was a folded tag on it with D’Amico’s name on it. *D’Amico’s.* Seemed like Ronnie Fazio was just a front man. Chris would find that mighty interesting.

Gianni returned and set a wineglass down. Vin looked at it, thought of Rain and Dr. Stone glaring at him, and shook his head. “Sorry, cain’t drink that.” Gianni looked disappointed, but whisked the glass away and replaced it with ice water with a slice of lemon floating in it. Ten minutes later, he set a small plate before Vin.

“Singore. *Pisci d’ovu*, and *Cappele di Fungi Ripiene*.” Vin lifted a brow. “Egg fritters and stuffed mushroom caps,” Gianni translated with a smile. And discreetly vanished. Vin took a bite of the small golden puffs, and thought he’d gone to heaven. A faint hint of garlic, buttery parmesan cheese, and *fried*. Lord, Travis knew his weaknesses. The mushroom caps were filled with a mixture of chopped mushrooms, herbs, and prosciutto, and topped with buttered bread crumbs. Vin, not a fan of mushrooms when they weren’t on pizza had no trouble with those.

He looked at his watch. Nearly eight. Time for Ezra to make his appearance. His attention was so focused on the door that he didn’t notice when the antipasti plate was removed and the soup course set in front of him. He looked down, smiled slightly. “Wedding Soup, right?”

“Si, signore. Very good.”

And it was.

Then he saw *them.* He recognized Ronnie Fazio immediately. He was short, broad shouldered, tending towards fat in his midsection though he wasn’t yet forty. His black hair was slicked back and his expensive suit didn’t quite fit him. He was followed by a tall, slender man, olive complected, dark haired, and, unlike Fazio, elegant in a flamboyant way that set Vin’s nerves on edge. Troy D’Amico -- the heir apparent. And Ezra, his green eyes sweeping the room in cool appraisal, his auburn hair gleaming, wearing one of his ridiculously expensive suits and looking more at home than either of his companions. Those eyes met Vin’s and one auburn brow lifted in greeting. Somehow, when they reached the table, Ezra worked the seating so that D’Amico and Fazio had a clear view of Vin, while his own profile was visible to the sharpshooter.

Gianni produced the next courses with a flourish. *“Tonarelli col Rosmarino. And *Filleto alla Diavolo,”* he announced as if he were serving the President of the United States instead of Vin Tanner, resident of Purgatorio. That was worth a smile.

Vin looked down at the dish that had taken the place of the soup. Squares of pasta in a sauce redolent with garlic, butter, and rosemary. The pasta was thin enough to nearly melt in his mouth. The filet was cooked rare and served with a sauce that was smooth, rich, and carried a bite of heat that lingered on the tongue. If not for the edge of nerves tingling in the back of his mind, Vin would have melted into a little puddle of contentment right there in Caruso’s.

Ezra was deeply engaged in a conversation with the sommelier and D’Amico, and Fazio hadn’t noticed Vin yet. Ezra pointed to a choice on the wine list, and the Sommelier nodded, approving; and made some sort of sign to a waiter who came to the table a few minutes later to pour wine as rich and red as blood. Vin watched, amused, as Ezra went through the elaborate ritual before granting his final approval. Smooth. Vin was glad that Dr. Stone had forbidden alcohol until his liver was healed -- he’d never been much for that particular dog and pony show.

The three men seemed to be more interested in the menu than in business. Vin finished his steak and Gianni took the plate away. “Coffee, Signore Tanner?”

“’N’less ya got something stronger,” he said, and Gianni grinned.

“Espresso?”

“Double?” Vin suggested, and Gianni went off, a happy man. Vin figured he could nurse the espresso for a long time, and it sure looked like it would be a while before Ezra and his companions would be ready to leave. Hell, they looked like they were having a high old time. But every now and then, Ezra’s green eyes would slide over to where Vin was sitting, and ghost away.

They were half-way through their appetizer course when Fazio happened to look up and see Vin. His dark face got darker, he said something that managed to look obscene, even though Vin couldn’t hear him, to Troy D’Amico. D’Amico turned quickly, saw Vin, and shot an ugly look at Ezra. Vin tossed aside his promise to remain in the background out the window. He crooked a finger at Gianni. “Bring me another espresso, and serve it at that table. I see some friends a’mine down there.”

“Si, signore.” Gianni had a faint look of disapproval on his face. Vin, always aware of nuances of expression, cocked an eyebrow at the waiter. “You know those fellers?”

“They are regular customers. They are not favorite customers. But what can you do -- turn down good money?”

“What do they do? Rip the place up?” Vin smiled.

“They are rude, ill-mannered. And their guests ...” he shrugged, “they are ...” No words, just an eloquent gesture that Vin understood perfectly. He knew the undercurrent of violence that men such as Fazio and D’Amico brought into a room, and it wasn’t the same tension that Larabee carried with him; this was as dark and dangerous as filthy water running fast.

He put aside his promise to Chris to stay away from Fazio and went down the steps to the main floor. He made his way to the table, Ezra watching him and looking worried. He stood at the table, cool and easy. “Ezra.” He appraised Fazio, nodded to D’Amico, and slid into the fourth chair at the table. “Ain’t this cozy?” he said, blue eyes slitted and dangerous. Before he could say another word, Ezra trod sharply on his instep, warning caution.

“This is my colleague, Vin Tanner. You’ve met. Indirectly.”

Silence as D’Amico’s eyes turned to ice, and Fazio did a slow burn. Vin met both looks without blinking. He wanted them to know how dangerous he was and could be. They knew. D’Amico broke first, an ugly smile on his face. “I wasn’t particularly fond of my uncle,” he said, “but his death has left a certain amount of ...disarray.”

Vin lifted a brow. “Really?”

Fazio seemed ready to leap from his chair and strangle Vin, which he thought was odd, considering that it wasn’t Fazio’s uncle he’d killed. He wondered if Ezra was seeing the same thing, but had no way of conveying his thoughts.

D’Amico shrugged. “A hazard of any business.”

Ezra shifted in his chair, leaning forward. “What is your business, tonight?”

“A deal.” D’Amico said. “You didn’t have to bring Mr. Tanner here for protection. That reeks of distrust.”

Ezra laughed softly. “Distrust? I can’t imagine why you would think I’d distrust you, Mr. D’Amico. But I digress ... What sort of deal?”

“Information. Surely you know you were betrayed.”

“I suspected as much,” Ezra drawled. Vin made a soft snort of derision. Again that nudge of a foot against Vin’s. “But so were you.”

D’Amico’s eyes narrowed and Vin, watching Fazio out of the corner of his eye, saw rage rippling through Fazio’s tense shoulders. Curious.

Ezra continued in that damned drawl, easy as honey. “Someone was feeding us information as well. Think about it.” He flipped a card on the table. “Call me -- and this time, don’t bother with the threats. They really are ineffective.” He rose, neat and elegant, nodded at Vin.

Vin stood, letting the lapels of his jacket fall just slightly aside, giving D’Amico and Fazio a glimpse of a leather shoulder holster in a subtle warning. Fazio looked like he was about to choke. Vin could have sworn that D’Amico looked alarmed.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin made sure his gun was cleared in the shoulder holster as he and Ezra left Caruso’s, but the front of the restaurant was quiet; no dark, menacing vehicles waiting. As soon as he and Ezra were out the door, he grabbed his arm. “You mind tellin’ me why we walked outta there empty-handed?”

Ezra gave him a pitying look. “Is that what you think?”

“Hell, yes. I thought they wanted to talk a deal.”

“Trust me, they weren’t. They were looking for information from us, but D’Amico isn’t the man to talk to. Surely you noticed the look on his face when I suggested that there was an informant in his camp.”

A smile touched the corner of Vin’s mouth. “Looked like he was gonna toss his pasta.”

“And Fazio?”

“Like you’d stuck a hot poker up his butt.”

Ezra laughed. “A crude but apt observation.” His eyes narrowed. “They’ll be in touch, one way or another.”

“’S’that *other* that’s got me worried there, Ez.” Standish shrugged as if he didn’t care, but Vin was willing to bet that those bruises on his body had to ache at the thought. “Where’d you park?” he asked Standish.

“Valet parking.” He handed his ticket to the waiting valet. “You?”

“’Bout a block thataway.”

“May I offer you a ride to your vehicle?”

Vin laughed. “Hell, Ezra. It’s a ragtop Jeep -- not the Queen of England’s coach -- and that’s all right, I’m good.”

“You have a fine disregard for your own safety, Mr. Tanner.” Ezra frowned. “You do realize that either of those gentlemen we just dined with are only too willing to put a period to your existence?”

“You more worried about me or your jacket?” Vin asked.

Standish gave him a wry smile. “It does seem that whenever I loan you an item from my wardrobe, it is never returned in the same pristine condition it was when it left my closet. But despite that, I assure you, I do value your life slightly more than cashmere.”

Vin laughed at that. “Thanks. You’ll get it back t’morrow. I promise.”

“Without bullet holes?”

“I’ll do my best, pard.” He wanted to talk to Ezra about the meeting, but just then the valet drove Ezra’s BMW up to the curb. “Guess we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“I fail to see how dissecting it this evening will do anything but give me a headache. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. I’m sure our fearless leader will be expecting a full report.” Ezra slid into the driver’s seat, gave the valet a tip, and drove off.

Vin watched him for a while, an unsettled feeling in his gut. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked quickly down the block to the parking lot where he had left the Jeep. He checked his paces in the shadow of a building. A dark shape was lurking alongside the Jeep; seemed somebody was waiting for him. His heart rate picked up a bit, and he had started to reach for his gun, when the flare of a striking match illuminated a shock of blond hair and the sharp features of Chris Larabee.

He drew a deep breath and strolled towards the Jeep. Chris leaned against the hood, a lit cheroot in his fingers. The tang of the smoke teased Vin’s nostrils as he approached. “Yer a bit high-priced t’be playin’ security guard for a beat up old Jeep, Larabee.”

“Ain’t the Jeep, it’s the driver.” Chris studied Vin’s face. The Texan looked pale and washed out in the sodium vapor street lights, though it was hard to tell if his pallor was more than the sallow reflection off his skin.

“Hell, th’driver’s as beat up as his ride,” Vin laughed softly. He tilted his head. “I’m alright, Chris, ya don’t hafta ride herd on me.”

Chris chuckled. “Is that what you think I’m doing? I thought I was getting a head start on tomorrow morning. You tired?”

“Shit, Chris. I drank two double espressos in there. I’m good till three AM. Why don’t ya come up t’my place and I’ll give you a rundown?”

Chris grimaced slightly. Purgatorio wasn’t his favorite place, but the dark circles beneath Vin’s eyes told him that the sharpshooter wasn’t up to driving out to the ranch no matter how much caffeine he had in him. “I’ll follow you there. Just don’t lose me.”

“Afraid I’ll outrun ya, old man?”

“Afraid you’ll pass out at the wheel,” Chris said. He slapped the hood of Vin’s Jeep. “See ya in a few.”

As Vin drove through the city, leaving the more upscale areas for the shabby, dangerous streets of Purgatorio, he sensed the presence of Chris at his back, stronger and brighter than the headlights of the Ram reflecting in his rearview mirror. It was a good feeling.

He wheeled into his parking place -- his, because his landlord appreciated having a tenant who paid his rent on time every month, and, because Vin had been known to do a bit of after hours law enforcement to keep the building safer for the other tenants. He waited in the vestibule for Chris. Larabee hated to park his truck on the streets, and made sure that anybody hanging out knew exactly how dangerous it would be to their continued existence if they laid as much as a fingertip on the Ram, before he walked away. So far, it had worked better than the fancy security system he’d installed.

“Thought you’d never get here,” Vin drawled when Chris backed warily into the tiny vestibule.

“When the hell are you going to move outta this place?”

“Maybe I figure Purgatory’s as close to heaven as I’m ever gonna git,” Vin replied. He walked right past the elevator which worked less than half the time and started up the four flights of stairs to his top floor apartment, listening to Chris mutter all the way up.

He unlocked the array of bolts on his door, pushed it open and flicked on the hall light. “Make yerself at home, Chris. I’m gettin’ out of Ezra’s duds before I spill somethin’ on ‘em, ‘r snag ‘em on a nail. Cain’t afford t’replace’em fer damn sure.” He went into the bedroom and changed from cashmere and Sea Island cotton to denim and a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt.

When he returned to the living room, Chris was sitting on the couch, a beer and a ginger ale on the coffee table in front of him. He flopped down next to Larabee with a sigh of relief. “Who’s drinkin’ what?” he asked.

Chris nudged the ginger ale towards Vin. “I’m not the one with a hole in my liver.” He took a swig of his beer and slouched deeper into the cushions. “So, what happened tonight at Caruso’s?”

“Wish I knew for sure.” He sipped, coughed when the fizz from the carbonation hit the back of his throat. Blinked away the tears stinging his eyes before he spoke. “It was weird, Chris. Real strange. Maybe when we get together with Ezra, things’ll make more sense.”

“Tell me.”

“First of all, it wasn’t jist Ronnie Fazio there. You were right about Fazio being the go-between. Troy D’Amico was with him.”

Chris thought about that. “The nephew?”

“Seems t’think he’s in charge, but ...” He took another thoughtful swig of soda. “Seemed real sure of himself until Ezra threw the fact that somebody in their camp was an informer on the table. Made Fazio heat up faster’n a poker and D’Amico look ... I’d swear he looked scared, Chris. And he ain’t the kind a’ man to scare easy.”

“What about the phone calls?”

Vin shook his head. “Ezra made it pretty clear he thought they were coming from D’Amico’s goons, but I saw D’Amico’s face, and I’d say our hunch was right.”

“Williams?” Chris sighed and rubbed forehead. “We don’t have anything on him yet, Vin. JD’s been scouring every database out there and so far Williams is clean.”

“Well, ya didn’t think it would be right out there in plain sight,” Vin sighed. Settled. His head dropped back and he closed his eyes. Chris started to stand, and Vin pushed his backbone off the cushions with an effort. “I’m beat, Chris. I’m goin’ to bed. The couch is yers if ya want it.”

Chris admitted that he wasn’t up to driving an hour out to the ranch, and Vin’s couch was more comfortable than the spine-bender in his office. “Thanks. As long as you don’t mind.”

“Hell, ya don’t snore like Bucklin, or talk in yer sleep like JD,” he said over his shoulder as he went to get blankets and a spare pillow for Chris. He came back, arms full and dumped the bedding on the couch. “G’night, Chris.”

“You, too. You take your meds?”

A roll of eyes and a quick grin. “Yes, mom.” Then he was out of sight in the bedroom. Chris spread things out, stripped down and was asleep just about as quickly as his head hit the pillow.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

 

Chris was still sleeping when Vin came into the living room the next morning; surprising because Larabee was usually up before dawn to feed the horses when he was out at the ranch. He looked over the back of the couch. All he could see was a thatch of blond hair sticking up in odd places and the edge of one high cheekbone. He went into the kitchen, started up the coffee, then took a shower, figuring that the aroma of the coffee would be alarm enough for Chris. And when he came out of the bathroom, Chris was sitting on the edge of the couch running his fingers through his disordered hair. Vin fetched two mugs of coffee, added sugar and milk to his own, and set the black one on the table in front of Chris.

“Mornin.’”

A grunt, not surly, just the tired sound of a man who still wanted to be sleeping. Chris yawned, scrubbed his hands across his eyes, took a couple swallows of the coffee. “What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty. Saturday. No work.”

Chris collapsed against the back of the couch. “Thank God.”

“No work unless ya count talkin’ to Ezra.”

Chris gave him a sidelong glance. “You call him yet?”

Vin snorted. “And interrupt his beauty sleep? I’ll give him another hour. Give you time t’wake up, shower an’ have somethin’ t’eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I am.” He stood up. “I’ll be back in a few.” He went to the convenience store down the block, picked up bagels and cream cheese, juice, eggs, and bacon. Larabee might think he wasn’t hungry, but Vin had been around often enough when Larabee hadn’t eaten and knew the stress it put on somebody with a tendency for ulcers and migraines. He wasn’t gonna put up with the foul temper that came with them.

When Chris emerged dressed and shaved, he was greeted by the aroma of a freshly cooked breakfast. Vin served out scrambled eggs and bacon, put bagels in to toast, poured more coffee. He tossed a newspaper on the table between them and slid into the chair across from Chris. He watched Chris from around the edges of the funny pages. For a man who said he wasn’t hungry, Larabee was making a good show of eating. Or maybe he just wasn’t thinking about the food. Chris read the paper with the same characteristics he brought to the job; quick, thorough, not missing a detail. Vin admired that -- he struggled through the funny pages. He finished, then glanced through the sports, looked at the headlines on the pages that Chris held. Read, then thought. Then tapped the paper.

“What?” Chris asked.

“Think I’m gonna call Ezra, see if he’s awake.”

“Yeah ...” Chris said, not really paying much attention to Vin. He was trying to digest the import of the latest round of security measures the government was implementing to counter terrorism when his own phone rang.

“Larabee.”

“Chris -- JD. I’ve got something here on Williams.”

Chris sat upright, looked around for Vin. Saw the impatient look on his face, and wondered what was up with Ezra. “Go ahead.”

“Chris, I don’t wanna get into this on the phone, okay?” JD sounded funny; nervous, breathless, excited and worried at the same time.

“Where are you?”

“At home. You and Vin coming over?”

“I guess. Vin’s trying to reach Ezra. You heard from him?”

“N-no.”

Vin came into the kitchen, an unhappy look on his face. “He ain’t picking up,” he said, and Chris felt a shiver run the length of his spine.

“JD, you and Buck meet us at Ezra’s ASAP.”

“Sure, Chris.” The phone clicked off. Chris shut his cell and looked at Vin.

“He answer yet?”

“No. I’ve tried his home, his cell -- nothing. I got a bad feeling about this.”

“You and me, both. JD and Buck are meeting us at Ezra’s. We drivin’ together?”

“Your truck.” Vin said, conceding his jeep’s limitations. They snatched up jackets and were out the door.

The drive was tense, nearly silent; Chris focused on driving, Vin continuing to try to reach Ezra. Still no answer. They swung into Ezra’s condo development, Vin half expecting to see police vehicles or fire engines in the lot. All was quiet. Chris pulled into a parking space, and Vin was out the door, loping towards the garage where Ezra parked his car. He looked through the glass. The car was there, quiet. He reached up, took something down from the overhang. He drew his gun from his ankle holster and returned to the Ram, where Chris was waiting, his own gun drawn. “Ezra’s car is in the garage.” He didn’t have to say that it was a bad sign. Chris swore softly. “Let’s move in.”

They did, trying to be inconspicuous in that suburban development where guns and violence were something most residents only saw on TV. Chris took hold of the door handle and thumbed the latch. Locked, of course. He made a frustrated sound in his throat and Vin caught his arm. “Got a key,” he said and opened his hand. “Ezra keeps it under the garage overhang,” he explained.

“Just another ace,” Chris said as he slid the key into the bolt and turned it. At first, he noticed the quiet, then something else. Rotten eggs. *Gas* he thought, and then couldn’t think as his eyes began burning and watering.

“Back. Back!” Vin grabbed hold of him, impelled him off the steps. “Call 911! And see if ya cain’t find the cut-off.” Leaving Chris, he ran to a neighbor’s yard, soaked his handkerchief in the ornamental fountain on the front lawn and holding it over his nose and mouth, plunged into the condo.

He found Ezra in the kitchen, slumped over the table. He grabbed him under the arms, dragged him from the chair. His lungs were burning, he was getting dizzy from exertion and fumes. Ezra was dead weight, lax and unresponsive. Vin wrestled him to the sliding doors leading from the kitchen to the deck, tugged the doors open, and with the last of his strength, forced their way through to the fresh air, before he collapsed on his knees, gasping and hurting. His side felt like pokers were running through his ribs, and he remembered for the first time that he had been injured, and might have well torn something inside that would cause him grief.

He felt hands on his shoulders, setting him aside, and Chris rolled Ezra to his back and started CPR. Vin lay down, hands clasped to his side, curled up tightly. He heard Chris give a small, triumphant sound as Ezra began coughing and moaning. He closed his eyes in gratitude. Alive. Ezra was alive. Sirens blared, then whined to silence as the fire department arrived. He felt Chris take his hand, then nothing as darkness overwhelmed him.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Three hours. Buck paced, JD hunched over his laptop, Josiah sat patiently, his big body slouched down, his arms crossed, watching the others from beneath heavy brows. Nathan, being something of an insider at the hospital ran interference with the doctors. Chris smoked, felt acid building in his stomach despite the medication Rain had forced on him, and worried. Every now and then he sensed JD watching him and knew he wanted to talk about what he’d found out about Williams -- and Chris wanted to hear it, but not now. Not until he knew Vin and Ezra were all right. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, as close to praying as he ever got these days.

“Vin!” JD’s joyful cry sat him upright fast. Vin raised a hand to JD, gave him a wan smile and dropped into the vacant chair next to Chris.

“Looks like y’all ‘r stuck with me for a while.”

At the moment Chris didn’t find much humor in that statement. “Not if I kill ya first,” he growled. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Thought I was savin’ Ezra.” Stubborn blue eyes met green granite. “Back down, Larabee. I’m all right. No harm done but a couple ‘a busted stitches.” He said it lightly, but behind the words there was gratitude for their concern. He looked around at the others. “What’s the word on Ezra? They lettin’ him out, too?”

“We’re still waiting,” Josiah said. He looked up hopefully as the doors to the treatment room opened, and then cleared his throat as he recognized the doctor standing there. Elizabeth Stone did not look like a compassionate physician, she looked like an avenging fury.

“Hey, doc,” JD said, in a futile attempt to diffuse the charged atmosphere.

The ER was Dr. Stone’s domain, and she stood there frowning at her most faithful subjects. *Hell, couldn’t *any* of these guys stay out of harm’s way long enough for her to get a good night’s sleep?* Her irritation faded as she saw the expression in six pairs of eyes, identical in their concern for their brother in arms.

She took a breath. “Ezra will be fine. I’m admitting him overnight to keep an eye on his blood gasses, but I don’t anticipate any problems. So you can *all* go home, now.” She focused on Vin. “Especially you, Mr. Tanner.”

Vin had the grace to blush. “C’n we see him?” he asked.

“Not tonight. I’ll tell him you were all here, but he’s pretty groggy still. Go home.” This time she said it with a smile.

Chris wasn’t about to let her dismiss them so easily. He rose, followed her back to the treatment area. “Dr. Stone!”

She had known he was following her. She had felt those green eyes of his boring into her back. She halted, wheeled to face him, so suddenly that he nearly ran into her. “What?” she demanded. “You shouldn’t be back here, Mr. Larabee.”

Chris grinned. “So, I’m back to Mr. Larabee.” That got another smile from her. “I sure hope Vin didn’t badger you into releasing him?”

“The day hasn’t come that long-haired sharpshooter can bully me in medical matters,” she said severely, but her eyes were warm. “He’s all right. It really was just a few external stitches.”

“Then why did he pass out?”

“Over-exertion. His hemoglobin levels are still a bit low and being in the fumes didn’t help him hold on to the oxygen in his blood, so he passed out.” She shrugged. “But he’s fine. Or at least he will be as long as he can resist playing Superman for another week or so.”

“Great. You don’t know Vin Tanner as well as you think you do, Doc.”

She clasped a sympathetic hand over his forearm. “Yeah, I do. Keep your eye on him, Chris.”

He watched her retreat down the hall before he returned to the waiting room. He looked at his team; all weary, even JD seemed to have run out of his earlier enthusiasm. Chris stood there, his hands on his hips. “Well, you heard the lady. Go home.”

Buck was the one who voiced what they all were thinking. “JD’s got some information, Chris. And I had the fire marshal fax over the preliminary report to the office. We’re all tired, but we ain’t so tired that we can’t put in another couple ‘a hours. Right?”

Chris had to look down at the toes of his boots. He cleared his throat. “All right, let’s ride, then.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris tried his damnedest to get Vin to go home, but he’d resisted with all the iron in that Tanner spine of his, and Chris relented with the proviso that Vin lay that same spine down on the couch in his office. Buck picked up pizzas and drinks on his way. They gathered in Chris’s office. By tacit agreement, they didn’t talk much about the case until they had finished eating. Then, at last, JD was able to open up his notebook.

Chris was willing to let the fire marshal’s report wait until after JD had a chance to tell what he’d been holding inside all day. Food had put some color back in his face, and some of the excitement that had faded over the course of the long day sparkled in his eyes again.

“Well, it took some doing, but I finally found something on Williams. I looked everywhere, there wasn’t much. He looks pretty much a straight arrow. His Treasury records are clean -- nothing exceptional though, just steady advancement through the ranks ‘til he reached where he is now. But ... I looked at some other stuff ... where he lives, how he lives. Divorced after twenty years of marriage. Lives in Colorado Springs in pretty fancy digs.”

Chris scrubbed a tired hand over his eyes. “People say the same thing about me, JD.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t live like that when he was married. In fact, last year his ex-wife petitioned to have his financial records opened, ‘cause she felt she wasn’t gettin’ her fair share of his wealth. Said he was hidin’ assets when alimony and child support was set.”

“Was he?”

“Said he wasn’t. And aside from a few investment accounts that he claimed he set up after the divorce, he looked clean. The judge upped the ante for his wife and kids, and it looked like case closed.”

“But?” Buck prodded, and JD grinned widely.

“Well, I sorta had a chat with Williams’s secretary.”

“I’m so proud ‘a you, son,” Buck crooned, and JD blushed fiery red.

“Not *that* kind of talk,” he protested. “Just got her to admit that she’s made some travel reservations for him. According to her, Williams’s been to Reno and Vegas several times in the last three months.”

“Gambling?” Buck said incredulously. “Now that’s just pitiful.”

Chris had to agree with that. The thought that nothing more than greed and desperation lay beneath Williams’s treachery made him sick. He wasn’t willing to concede Vin and Ezra’s lives to such a petty evil. There had to be more. “We’ll talk to Ezra in the morning. Maybe he can help us with some insider information.” He rotated his stiff shoulders. “Good work, JD. Is there anything else?”

“I’ve got Jimmy Constantine working on a couple ‘a things out there, but I don’t expect to hear anything before tomorrow.”

Chris nodded. Jimmy Constantine was one of JD’s “contractors;” a whiz kid who had made a deal to stay out of federal prison after he’d hacked into several government sites and embarrassed the heck out of their so-called “security” experts. He’d been uncooperative until he met JD, decided he was cool, and had been doing work for them ever since. He was so far ahead of the game that his electronic inquiries were untraceable, and Chris wondered if he should feel a qualm of guilt at using him against a fellow agent. All he had to do was look at Vin’s pale face, and recall breathing into Ezra’s mouth to revive him for that doubt to vanish like smoke. He shifted in his chair, preparing to stand since it seemed there wasn’t much else they could do.

Buck waved the fax in the air. “Old pard, I got this report we need to look at before we call it a day.”

“Right.” Chris sat back. “Go on.”

“The gas line to the stove was disconnected. The hose was spewing fumes into the air. It wasn’t an accident.”

“Hell, we knew that,” Vin spoke from the couch, the first words he’d said since arriving at the office.

“Yeah, but there’s ways of being disconnected, and *ways* of bein’ disconnected, if you catch my drift,” Buck said, one dark brow lifted.

Vin pushed himself upright, wincing a bit, but holding up his hand to ward off any assistance. “So somebody went into Ezra’s place and opened up that hose, hid it back behind the stove where Ezra couldn’t see it had been tampered with, and opened up the gas line. And I got a pretty good hunch who did it.”

“Who?” JD asked.

“That little shit Ronnie Fazio. He didn’t exactly greet Ezra with open arms last evening. Last I saw a’him, he was lookin’ at Ezra like he wished he could kill him right there in Caruso’s. Wouldn’t take much fer him t’break into Ezra’s place and set the whole thing up.

“But Ezra’s got alarms all over the place.”

“Son, you know there’s ways around alarms,” Josiah said from his corner seat. “But would Fazio have had time to get to Ezra’s and set this thing up?” He looked at Vin. “Did he go right home?”

“How the hell should I know?” Vin said irritably. “It ain’t like he e-mailed me his agenda.” He lay back down again. “He drove off. Didn’t see where he went. Sorry.”

Buck sighed. “Well, we ain’t gonna find out more until there’s an investigation. Maybe when Ezra wakes up he’ll be able to fill in some of the blanks.” He looked at Chris. “What’s next, *jefe?*”

Chris groaned and thrust his fingers through his hair. He looked around at his team, the men who were his family. His blood. They were all worn out, tired as he was, and hurting. “Sleep.” He stood up. “I’ll see you all in the morning. Go home, take a break. JD, let me know if you hear anything from Constantine. That’s all. Thanks.”

One by one they left the room, a touch on the shoulder, a clasp of a hand, a nod. Chris sank down in his chair, laid his head in his hands.

“Y’ain’t alone, Chris.” The soft, humorous voice made him look up and smile.

“Thanks. I figure I knew that.”

A chuckle. “Jist didn’t want ya t’fergit I was here. This ain’t the most comfortable couch in the world.”

“Mind if I borrow yours again?”

Vin pushed himself upright and swung his legs to the floor. “It’s yours fer the price of a good cheeseburger.”

“Hell, I’ll buy you a steak,” Chris grinned.

Vin returned the grin. “Fer that I’ll throw in the blankets.”

“Deal.”

They left the office and stopped at a local bar and grille where the steaks were rare, the beer cold, and the music quiet. Vin didn’t eat much, but enough to keep Larabee from glaring at him. He sat back in his chair and studied his friend. He looked worn out, like the world was on his shoulders. And maybe it was. His green eyes were shadowed, dark circles beneath the pale skin. And the tight draw to his mouth even when he smiled spoke of stress and exhaustion.

As they waited for coffee, Chris took out his cell phone, dialed a number and waited. “Ezra Standish.” And waited. “Thank you.” And hung up.

Vin raised a brow. “How’s he doin’?”

“He’s out of intensive care and into a room. That’s all they say anymore.”

“Chris, ya know what Williams is gonna try t’ pull?”

Chris leaned back in his chair. “Suicide?”

“Yeah. Figure they’re gonna pull that collusion shit again.” He sighed, a low breath of disgust. “We’ve got Williams on one side, D’Amico on the other, both trying t’ git around us. Wish we could just step outta the way and let ‘em hang themselves.”

“Got news for you, pard. They ain’t waiting for you and Ezra to step outta the way.”

Vin gave a snort of laughter. “Maybe *we* ought’a let ‘em think we *are* outta the way.” The expression on Chris’s face told him that he’d said something that caught Larabee’s fancy. The tired eyes took on a dangerous glitter, the weary slouch disappeared as he leaned forward.

“You want to elaborate on that?” he asked.

Vin shrugged. The idea had come to him, and now he was just making it up as he went along. “Why not let ‘em have what they want? Me an’ Ezra’s already been tarred with the same brush. Williams thinks we’re bent. D’Amico’s afraid we’re movin’ in on him. Take me an’ Ezra out of the mix -- suspend us. Make a big deal of it. Ask Mary t’ leak it t’the press. See what happens.”

“No.”

“Jist like that?”

“Maybe that carbon monoxide cut off the oxygen to your brain, Tanner.”

“Maybe.” But he smiled slightly. “You got any better ideas?”

“How about paying the bill and getting some rest before that idea takes hold in your addled skull?”

“It’ll still be there in the morning,” Vin said.

“Yeah, but maybe it won’t make so much damned sense in the clear light of day.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Pure physical exhaustion sent Vin to bed as soon as they returned to the apartment. But then, true to his body and his nerves, he found himself wide awake at 3am; the immediate need for rest satisfied, and his brain running like he’d taken speed.

He lay awake for a while, hoping he’d drift off again, but watching the minute hand creep along was frustrating, so he got up and moved silently through the apartment, careful not to wake Chris, who had to be at least as tired as he was. He poured a glass of milk and took a handful of graham crackers from the package, wincing at the rustle of the waxed paper. He went to the tall window and sank down on the ottoman he kept beneath the window sill.

That damned idea of his was still gnawing at his mind, and he wished it hadn’t popped up so conveniently ... so tempting in thought, and so dangerous in practice.

He and Ezra would have to cut themselves off from the team. You wouldn’t have thought it would be so hard for the two lone wolves of the pack to drop away, both him and Ezra being used to solitude far more than any of the others, and himself more used to it than Ezra. Hell, at least Ezra had Maude in his life, inconstant as she was. And maybe Ezra wouldn’t go for the idea at all -- Vin couldn’t blame him if he was a mite skittish after two attempts on his life.

But the thought was out there, and it needed some pondering. He ate and thought, and came to no immediate conclusion other than the one he had already arrived at. He sighed.

“Vin?”

Chris’s sleep-roughened voice cut through his tangled thoughts. “I’m all right. Go back t’sleep.”

But he didn’t. He sat up, scrubbed sleep from his eyes. “What’s keeping you awake?”

Vin shrugged. “Jist thinkin’.” He got up from the ottoman. “You want somethin’ t’drink?”

“Water.” He pushed the blanket aside, went into the bathroom, came out a few minutes later. He took the glass of ice-water from Vin and they sat on the couch. “Talk to me, partner.”

He did, his words elliptical, knowing Chris understood the paths he was traveling. “Gotta see Ezra tomorrow morning. Ask if he’s up to doing this with me.”

“It won’t be easy for either of you -- or for us,” Chris said. He knew he couldn’t dissuade Vin and half-hoped that Ezra would when they saw him.

“Hell, so much fer easy,” Vin chuckled. He laid his head back against the cushions. “Gotta talk to Travis about this, too.”

“We will.” Chris breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that Vin was working through channels this time, and not haring off on his own. “He’ll have to announce the suspensions. It’ll be ugly, Vin.”

“I know. But it’s play-acting, Chris. Nothing else.” He yawned, stood up and stretched, the lazy motion cut short as his muscles reminded him that he was still healing. “Think I’ll try that sleep thing, again. G’night.”

He went to the bedroom, lay down, watching the patterns on the ceiling. An occasional passing car’s headlights slid bands of light across the shadows. He closed his eyes, went through the relaxation techniques he’d learned in sniper school to slow his heart and his breath, and slipped into a doze that eventually deepened into sleep until the sun stealing across his eyes woke him in the morning.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra was dressed and waiting to be discharged when Vin went to the hospital the next morning. He had asked Chris if he could talk to Ezra alone, and Larabee, surprised and a bit unsettled to be out of the loop even for a short while, had agreed reluctantly.

Vin peered into Ezra’s room. “Hey there, Ez. Ya ready to blow this pop stand?”

“More than ready.” But Vin noticed that he didn’t exactly leap to his feet and he still looked pale and hollow-eyed. He seemed discomfitted to be wearing the same clothes he had worn the day before; sweat pants and a zip-front jacket, as if he had been planning to get on that treadmill he kept in the basement of his condo. Ezra might pretend to be lazy, but the demands of the job required physical stamina, and he kept in shape while looking like he never broke a sweat.

“I parked in Doc Stone’s spot up front, so we better git goin’ b’fore they tow my Jeep away. Told ‘em she said I c’d park there while I picked you up.”

Ezra grinned. “I’m sure Dr. Stone would be surprised at her generosity.”

“Ain’t like she’s here -- and she’d say it was all right. ‘Sides, she likes me,” Vin said with a wink, and Ezra laughed.

“I might believe that if you were Buck Wilmington.”

“Are you sayin’ I cain’t give Bucklin a run fer the money?”

“I am sayin’ that you’ve ruined too many of Elizabeth Stone’s dinner plans.”

“Ain’t my fault. Never asked to git shot ‘r knifed.” He grinned crookedly, high color on his cheekbones.

They argued genially on the way out to the Jeep, and listened to the classical music station Ezra preferred during the ride back to his condo. Vin parked and Ezra stepped out. He stood for a moment, looking at the fluttering remains of yellow crime scene tape, and for a moment he seemed to sway against the side of the Jeep, clinging to the roll bar for support, until Vin came around to his side.

“You all right?”

Ezra didn’t like the wash of cold fear that had swept through him, and he shrugged carelessly. “A momentary weakness.” But he was very glad that Vin was there to see him inside.

He didn’t know why he expected anything to look different. The carpeting was as pristine, the walls as white, the artwork as soothing. If he had been robbed, if his possessions had been violated, he would have understood his disorientation. But this was home. As much a home as he’d ever had, and it felt as impersonal and cold as a room in a hotel.

*Nonsense*, he told himself, pulling his spine up from its cowardly slouch. “Thank you for returnin’ me to my humble abode.” He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture that he was unable to suppress.

“Sure.” Vin’s blue eyes were narrowed, and it was all Ezra could do to keep from squirming beneath that regard.

“What?” he snapped.

“Ezra, we need t’talk.”

“Can it wait?” Slight panic because he didn’t want to talk about what had happened. Not yet. “I’d like to change, clean up.”

Vin shrugged. “Reckon so. I’ll jist sit down here fer a bit.” There was no diffidence in that suggestion, just a calm statement of intent.

“Fine.” Beneath the shortness of the reply lay relief that he wouldn’t be alone in the house, not just yet. He couldn’t help wondering how much was true necessity, and how much was the kindness and comprehension of friendship. And he couldn’t say which bothered him more. He went upstairs without saying anything else.

Vin waited until he heard the water running before he unclipped his cell phone from his waist and called Chris.

“How’s Ezra?” was the first question.

“Home.”

“You ask him yet?”

“No. Haven’t had the chance. Chris, he ain’t doin’ too well.”

A pause. “Should he still be hospitalized?”

Vin sighed. “His body’s fine. His head’s screwed up. Ain’t never seen him spooked before.”

“Christ.” Another longer pause. “You still gonna ask him to join you on this?”

“I’ve got to. We don’t have much choice. Maybe all he needs is some time t’git used to things again. I’ve been there. Know what it’s like to feel like the world’s been ripped out from under ya.”

“Yeah, I know.” Softly, understanding. “You want me to come out there?”

Vin thought. “I’ll git back to you on that, okay?”

“Okay.” Silence as Chris disconnected.

Ezra came down a while later. His hair was damp, he was wearing khakis and a Tommy Hilfiger golf shirt. He looked cool, expensive, and more like himself. He sat in the chair across from where Vin sat on the sofa. “Could I offer you some coffee?”

Vin leaned forward. “Sure.”

Ezra stood up, went to the kitchen entrance, hesitated for a second, then crossed the threshold. Vin gave him a minute, then followed, taking a stance against the door frame. Ezra was standing at the counter, coffee scoop in one hand. An almost visible wire of tension seemed to be strung through his shoulders. Vin shook his head.

“It’s still yer place, Ezra. Ain’t changed jist ‘cause some bastard was in here.” He cursed his inadequacy with the spoken word. “I’ve been there. More’n once.”

“I appreciate the empathy, but I still don’t know what happened,” Erza said. “Or who did this. It isn’t even that there was an attempt on my life ... it was hardly the first.”

“The first on yer home turf,” Vin said quietly, “c’n take the wind outta yer sails.”

“Do you know what happened?” Ezra resumed the coffee making.

“The gas connection behind the stove was open. Fire marshal figures for several hours. Yer carbon-monoxide alarm was disabled. Cain’t figure out why you didn’t smell the gas.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t. I don’t even remember coming downstairs. I remember waking up, getting dressed.” He shrugged, turned back to Vin. “That’s it.”

Vin gnawed on his lower lip. “Doc Stone did blood tests, right?”

“Endlessly.”

“Mind if I give her a call?” He sat at the table, pulled out his cell phone.

“You don’t think --”

“Well, gee, Ezra. I do think something made ya pass out if you don’t remember bein’ in the kitchen.” Vin leaned his chair against the wall, balancing on the back legs, and knowing it made Ezra nervous. Might as well give him something to worry about other than being a victim. Ezra frowned, put a mug of coffee on the table in front of him.

Vin called the hospital, asked them to page Elizabeth Stone. Then gestured to Ezra that he wanted sugar and milk for his coffee. Ezra grumbled. Vin grinned at him. He dumped two teaspoons of sugar into Ezra’s expensive coffee blend, and watched as the southerner rolled his eyes. “Brings out the flavor.”

“Spare me.” Ezra drawled, but without acidic sarcasm, and seeming more relaxed than at any time since he’d come home.

Vin’s phone sounded and he flipped it. “Tanner. Hey doc. I’m fine. It ain’t me I’m callin’ about. It’s Ezra Standish. No, he’s all right. Doc, you do any tox screens on him?”

There was a silence. Ezra leaned forward, listening for any change in Vin’s voice that would tell him what Elizabeth Stone was saying. The sharpshooter was nodding. “Thanks, doc. I’ll do that. ASAP. Got it.”

He thumbed the phone off. “C’mon, Ez. We need to get back to the hospital.”

“W-what? Why?”

“Didn’t do tox screens, jist blood gasses. Ya mighta been drugged.”

“How?”

“How the hell should I know?” Vin drained his coffee, snatched Ezra’s from out of his hand. “C’mon. Time’s a wastin.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra was angry. Angry that he had been overcome, that he had inhaled a substance that had rendered him unconscious, that he’d been injected with a barbiturate and left to die. He still had no recall of the initial attack, but Chris Larabee had ordered a forensics team out to his house to inspect it for signs of a break-in, for fingerprints. That anger was the best thing for him; it burned away the shame and fear that had dogged him earlier.

When he and Vin returned from the hospital, they found Chris there with the forensics team. They were packing up, and Ezra just didn’t want to think about the mess they’d left inside. He’d been at enough crime scenes to know that it would look like a herd of small children with sooty fingers had touched every surface in the house. His cleaning service would earn their fees this week.

“Ezra, you all right?” Chris asked.

He gathered his wits. “I don’t think we care to discuss business standing in the driveway, gentlemen. Shall we adjourn inside?” He braced himself and opened the door.

Not too bad. At least in the living area. The forensics team had been considerate. Granted, they had been working under Chris Larabee’s scrutiny which would have inspired caution in the most slapdash of workers. Ezra ran his finger along the edge of his sofa table and grimaced. “Did they find any prints that did not belong here, Mr. Larabee?”

Chris stood with his hands on his hips. “Yours, mine, Vin’s. Some that probably belong to your cleaners since they were in places that would be inaccessible to casual contact. The door to your study was jimmied -- no prints.”

“That is how they gained access, then?”

“Yeah. Forensics found this under your deck.” He picked up a plastic bag. Inside was a disposable hypodermic. There was a second bag containing a crumpled cloth. “They must have jimmied the window and come upstairs waiting for you. You came out of the bedroom. They must have come up behind you, clapped the rag over your mouth. When you went down, they injected you with whatever *this* is, carried you down to the kitchen, detached the gas hose and left. They were good, Ezra.”

“Not good enough,” he said, his voice tight. “Thanks to you and Vin.”

Vin was leaning against the mantel. “You wanna get the bastards, Ez?” His eyes were glittering, intense.

“It would be a pleasure, Mr. Tanner. Whoever they are.” Vin’s intensity had ignited his own.

“Vin has a plan,” Chris said, and from the gravity in his voice, Ezra knew it wasn’t going to be easy. “Sit down, Ezra.”

He laid it out. The plan that would leave Ezra and Vin isolated from friends in the ATF, vulnerable to enemies, seen and unseen. Speaking it made it seem colder, harder, but there could be no doubt that both Vin and Ezra were willing to take the risk. “We need to take this to Travis for approval,” Chris finished.

“Let’s do it.” Vin straightened. “Ezra, you game?”

“Mr. Tanner, you know I play the hand I’m dealt. I’m ready.”

“We’ll meet you at the office, Ezra. Say in an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Orrin Travis regarded the three men in his office through narrowed eyes. The plan they were proposing sent a cold chill to the pit of his stomach. Any undercover operation had inherent risks, this one, with the double-cross inevitable, and involving the possible duplicity of Williams and his investigators, had more pitfalls than traversing an Arctic crevasse.

“I don’t like it,” he said.

Vin leaned forward. “The way I see it, sir, Ezra’s pretty damn close t’bein’ suspended, if Williams has his way. C’n you tell me that he ain’t gonna bring it to somebody’s attention that Ezra musta tried t’kill himself, jist ‘cause that’s the way it looks to an outsider? Leak a few hints that maybe guilt had driven him to it?”

“We have evidence that contradicts that.”

“Yeah, but why waste it?” Vin argued. “Look, Judge. Ya got D’Amico tryin’ t’take control of his uncle’s business and Ronnie Fazio anglin’ to be his muscle, an’ maybe more ‘n that. They *know* someone inside sold out the old man to us. Ya got Williams on yer back about Ezra -- claimin’ he’s responsible for breakin’ the operation before we got a chance t’shut it down. And we still don’t know who sold Ezra out, do we? Might be Williams, might not. Me ‘n Ezra are the only ones with contacts on both sides. You cut us loose, and we c’n play those two sides off ‘a one another.”

“We are only followin’ the path that has been laid down for us by circumstance, sir,” Ezra spoke softly.

“That path could lead to unforeseen consequences,” Travis said.

“If you will pardon my objections, I *have* seen those consequences,” Ezra countered.

Travis studied Ezra. He stood restlessly. Paced. Weighed common sense against the wishes of his heart. He respected all the agents he supervised, but this team of seven extraordinary men was precious to him, every one. He looked at Chris Larabee. He’d known Chris for a while, well enough to think of him like a son. He still hoped that Chris and Mary would find a way to reconcile their stubborn spirits ...

“Orrin ... what do you think?” Chris asked.

He brought himself back to the issue at hand. “I don’t like it, Chris.”

“This job requires us to do a lot of things we don’t like. But we do them.” He met Travis’s level gaze. “Par for the course.”

Travis relented, still hating the thought of the danger Standish and Tanner were facing. “Give me until tomorrow morning to get the paperwork in order. If we’re going to do this, it has to look good.”

If he had expected jubilation at their successful campaign to win him over, he would have been disappointed. If anything, the mood became more somber. Chris rose and held out his hand. “Thanks, Orrin.”

“You don’t owe me gratitude for this, Chris.” He shook Chris’s hand, then offered his to Vin and Ezra. “But I believe my debt to you will be incalculable if you succeed.”

They left Travis’s office and stood waiting for the elevator. Chris scowled at the numerical display. “Shit.”

Vin laughed softly. “You were hopin’ he’d say no?”

Chris’s mouth thinned in a mirthless smile. “Kinda was.”

“We seem to have reached the point of no return,” Ezra said.

“No. You listen to me, the both of you. It’s never too late to back out of this.” The elevator doors opened, quelling any other words Chris would have added, and maybe that was for the best, he thought.

They took the elevator down to their floor. Buck, JD, Josiah, and Nathan were at their desks. They all looked up as Chris strode through the door. “Don’t you guys ever go home?” he asked.

Buck rose lazily from his chair. “Thought we’d all go out for a drink. You’ve been keepin’ us out a’ the loop, Chris, and I think it’s time you brought us all up to date.” He passed a sheet of paper over to Chris. “Williams asked me t’deliver this to ya. Said you ought to know he’s taking this to Travis.”

Chris’s first reaction was anger. Then the irony of it struck home. He looked at Vin and Ezra. “This is a formal request for an immediate suspension from active duty for Agents Standish and Tanner, pending an investigation into their roles in the D’Amico case.”

Silence, and then Ezra drawled, “Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

They gathered around their tables at Inez’s bar, a pitcher of beer, glasses, a couple orders of nachos shared between them. To the casual observer, they would have looked like a bunch of guys getting together after work for a drink. To Inez Recillos, who knew them better, they looked like brothers in arms gathering before a battle. She sensed the tension beneath their usual banter, the grim, wild look in Buck’s eyes as he flirted with her -- reflexive -- Buck would have flirted with her on his deathbed, and probably with more enthusiasm than he did that night. She didn’t like seeing any of it. These men were her friends, and she worried for them. She saw Buck gesture for a refill on the beer, and she drew one and carried it over to the table. She set it down and gave Vin a curious look. He was never a heavy drinker, but tonight he hadn’t even had one glass, just sat there nursing a cola.

“Not drinking?” she asked.

He raised the can of pop. “Got another one a’ these?”

“Watch it, Senor Tanner or I’ll have to cut you off,” she smiled.

“S’all right, I ain’t the designated driver.” He ducked away as she reached to ruffle his hair, making Buck clear his throat irritably. Inez bumped up against Buck playfully, and walked away to get Vin his drink.

Buck gave a last longing look at her trim figure before he turned his attention to more serious matters. “You ready to talk, Larabee?”

Chris took a swallow of his beer. “Ezra was drugged.”

“Shit.”

“We can’t risk another attempt on his life, or Vin’s. So we had already decided to take the initiative with Travis providing the cover of suspensions. Seems like Williams has done us a favor by making it look even more official.”

JD spoke up, “I can understand why Williams is so keen on getting Ezra -- I mean we all knew that he suspected Ezra of being on the take -- but why’s he going after Vin?”

Vin’s voice was soft, but no one had trouble hearing him. “Reckon it jist seems that me’n Ezra are in this t’gether. Don’t make much sense, but Williams is only seein’ what he wants t’see. And he sees me as crooked.” His lips turned in a wry smile. “Might as well oblige him.”

“You were nearly killed!” JD sputtered indignantly.

Vin shrugged. It was Ezra who answered. “Hazards of our profession,” he said.

There was silence then; a moment when mortality seemed to hover over the table, and Chris felt a shiver down his spine. Josiah raised his glass. “May they be small.”

And they all drank to that.

Buck set his glass down with a sigh. “So, how is this all goin’ down, Chris?”

“My guess is that Orrin will announce the suspensions in the morning. Vin and Ezra will leave the office under a cloud of suspicion and rumor. And I guess we’ll go on from there.”

“Damn, cowboy. Ya don’t have t’make it sound so damn cheerful,” Vin rasped. His throat was tight, his stomach cold with the thought of losing what he had fought so hard to earn. Orrin would have to do some fancy damage control when this was over, and Vin wasn’t sure that would be enough to erase the taint. Suddenly, he was very tired. He shoved an elbow into Chris. “Sorry, I’m headin’ home. Fall asleep in m’drink if I don’t.”

Chris slid out of the booth. “JD, you hear from Jimmy yet?”

“I gave him a call before I left the office. He’ll get back to me.”

“Ezra, are you gonna be all right?”

“I am stayin’ with Josiah tonight. My cleaning service won’t be there until tomorrow, and I have no desire to spend the evenin’ surveying the debris left by the forensics team.”

Chris half-suspected that there was another reason Ezra had accepted Josiah’s hospitality, and he was grateful that Sanchez had offered it. “Buck, you and JD be careful.”

Buck raised a surprised brow. “Sure, Chris.”

Nathan stood to leave. All of this just made him want to go home to Rain, take her in his arms, and be thankful that he was not involved in this case to the extent that Vin and Ezra were. But it didn’t stop him from worrying about his friends. “Wait up, Chris. Walk ya out.”

They walked to the Ram. The night was clear, warm. The sounds of the city drifted around them; the rush of traffic, the music from the bars. Vin leaned against the side of the truck, waiting for Chris to open the locks. Nathan frowned at him, and Vin smiled.

“Back off, Nate. I’m all right.” The door locks popped, and Vin opened the door, warning Nathan off from helping him. “Ain’t eighty years old or crippled up, doc.”

Nathan scowled. “You take it easy, Vin.”

“Looks like I’ll have time t’put my feet up.” He hauled himself into the Ram. “Tell Rain I’m doing fine.”

Chris stood with his hand on the door, listening to the worry in Nathan’s voice and the tension in Vin’s. Nothing seemed right, nothing seemed to fit in his mind, and that made him uneasy. He held out his hand to Nathan. “Thanks, Nate.”

“See ya in the mornin’, Chris.”

“Sure.” He climbed in and started the engine. He glanced over at Tanner. His head was tilted back against the headrest, his eyes closed. “Vin, seat belt.”

“Yeah.” Still with his eyes closed, he reached up and pulled the webbing across his lap. “Jist drive, Chris.”

He did, through the city streets to Purgatorio. Vin was silent, the radio was playing quietly; mournful country music that Chris turned off because it suited his mood too well. When he pulled up in front of Vin’s building, he killed the ignition, but didn’t get out of the truck.

Vin turned his head. “Guess this is it, cowboy.” He pushed his spine upright and wrestled with the lock on the seat belt until he remembered the trick and it slid free. “Ya ever gonna git that fixed?”

“Maybe.” Chris gave him a thin smile. Even in the dim light of the cab, Vin looked pale, his eyes wide and dark. There were times when the prospect of undercover work was like a hit of adrenaline, when the need to hunt and catch was strong and primal, and Vin seemed to shimmer with the challenge. But not this assignment. And that had Chris worried.

“Chris?” Vin’s whisper was low and hoarse.

“Yeah?”

“Go home t’night. Okay?”

“You sure?”

Vin nodded. “I need ...” he shrugged a slim shoulder. “I guess it starts here.”

“It’s play-acting, Vin,” Chris reminded him. “You said it yourself.”

Vin looked at him levelly. “It’s never jist that.” His lips curved. “Reckon I got the scars t’prove it.” He shifted to open the door, caught the brief, stricken look in Chris’s eyes. “Don’t sweat it, Chris. Me n’ Ezra, we’ve been there before and come out all right.”

“Watch your back, partner.”

“I will, partner.” Vin held out his hand and Chris gripped his forearm tightly. “You watch yours, Larabee. Life’s as raw on the inside as it is on the out.” He opened the door, and Chris watched until he was inside. He started the Ram, waited until he saw Vin’s lights come on, then drove away. Suddenly, relief at spending the night in the familiar surroundings of his home flooded through him, and he took to the highway like the demons of hell were at his heels.


	3. Part Three

**Part Three**

 _Shock waves rolled through the Denver field office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms this morning as two highly decorated agents were suspended pending an investigation of alleged collusion with underground weapons dealers. Christopher Larabee, the leader of the elite team of ATF agents involved, had no comment on the matter other than to advise the media that Assistant Director Orrin Travis would be holding a press conference later this afternoon. When questioned about the allegations, Agent Larabee said that he will cooperate fully with the investigation and that he is confident his two agents will be cleared of all wrongdoing.”_

Mary Travis’s cool, professional voice floated over the image of a tense, harried-looking Chris Larabee, hounded by the press and accompanied by Buck Wilmington on one side and Josiah Sanchez on the other. Vin, watching the news with Ezra, felt like it was all a bad dream that was happening to someone else. It left him with a nauseous, disoriented feeling.

Ezra set a glass of soda in front of Vin. “Mr. Tanner, it seems we are well and truly fucked.”

“Then how come I ain’t got that ‘afterglow’ they’re always talkin’ about?” Vin took a deep swallow of cola and wished it was beer, whiskey, anything to bring oblivion. “Chris looked tired,” he said, apropos to nothing.

“I imagine Mr. Larabee has been having a much rougher time than you and I. I don’t suppose it will last, however. Sooner or later, someone is bound to discover where we live.”

“Hell, we c’n always go t’my place if it gits too bad. Least they won’t hang around the front door waitin’ fer us. Too scared.”

“I believe I will pass on that offer, my friend.”

“Might change your mind.” Vin raised the glass as Ezra’s phone rang. Standish started to pick up, then hesitated, when he didn’t recognize the number on his caller ID.

“Telemarketer,” Ezra said hopefully.

“Reporter, betcha five.”

When the phone rang again less than a minute later. Ezra snatched up the phone. “No comment,” he snapped, hung up, and handed Vin a five dollar bill. “They shouldn’t have this number.”

Vin lifted a brow. “If there’s a story in it, they’ll find a way t’git it, Ezra.” He reached over and unplugged the phone. “Chris’d use the cells anyway,” he said and slumped down in the chair. He was tired, his head hurt, and his side ached. He hadn’t slept much the night before; had lain awake trying to figure out what was going to happen, and dreading what the morning would bring.

He had worked so hard for this job. For this life. From nowhere, clawing his way through a system that had treated him like trash, finding his way through the maze of his learning disabilities, learning to use his unique talents and occasionally suffering because of them. Then Chris Larabee had reached out a hand in friendship and brotherhood, and he had found a home. He should’ve known something would conspire to rip that away from him.

He sighed. Just another day, just another fight.

Ezra’s cell phone rang, and he answered it. Vin only half-paid attention to the conversation until he heard Ezra’s mention his name and Ronnie Fazio’s in the same sentence, then he sat bolt upright, fast.

“I’m certain that can be arranged, Mr. D’Amico,” Ezra drawled, one eyebrow cocked at Vin. “Let us know the time and the place, and it will be a pleasure.” He closed the phone and looked at Vin. “As you have no doubt gathered, that was our friend, Troy D’Amico. He would like a demonstration of your talents, Mr. Tanner.”

“Shit,” Vin breathed. “Looks like bad news travels fast. What kind of demonstration?” he asked suspiciously. “I ain’t up t’fightin’, Ez.”

“Marksmanship, my friend. Marksmanship. I trust there is nothing wrong with your eyes.”

“Not that I know,” Vin said. “He say anything about when this shindig would be takin’ place?”

“He’ll let us know in an hour.”

“Gotta git my rifle.”

“He said he would supply the weapons for the demonstration.”

Vin scowled. “I don’t much like the sound of that.”

“I thought you could take the eye out of a penny with a pea-shooter.”

“When I’m usin’ my own pea-shooter,” Vin quipped, but serious at the heart of it. A sniper used his own rifle, knew it more intimately than he knew his own body; knew the way it shot, the feel of it nestled against his cheek, the crosshairs of the scope, the way it worked in heat, in cold, in rain, in wind.

“It’s a demonstration, Vin. Not a job.”

Vin got off the couch. “You keep believin’ that, Ezra. I’m gonna take a shower, git some of the cobwebs outta my brain.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Troy D’Amico set the phone back in its cradle with a fastidious motion, and turned his attention to Ronnie Fazio. “There, it’s done.”

“Falling into your hands like ripe fruit?” Ronnie Fazio sneered. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m not a fool -- don’t ever take me for one,” D’Amico said in a voice like cold silk. “A trap needed to be baited. That’s what has been done.” He went to the window with its view of Denver, the city that he wanted to own -- the city that he would own if his plan worked out. “Arrange for Mr. Tanner’s trial. Make it as soon as possible. I want to be there, but I don’t want him to know that I am watching. You *do* understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good.” He lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke. “Do it.”

Fazio gave him an ugly glance, but he obeyed. D’Amico was too dangerous to cross, and Ronnie had every intention of coming out of this plot a very rich and very powerful man. And when he was, Troy D’Amico would be as expendable as his uncle had been.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris paced the length of Orrin Travis’s office, waiting for the AD to return from a meeting upstairs with the bureau chief. Politics. He should have known that’s what this would come down to -- the Suits making decisions about the men who were in the trenches. It was a fucked up world; it was amazing that it worked as often as it did.

He heard the door open and turned to it, expecting Travis, and instead found himself face to face with Ed Williams. Great. Williams looked just about as thrilled to be face to face with him. Chris folded his arms. “You come to gloat?”

“Why should I? I would think that you’d be relieved to have the truth out it the open. It must have stung to realize that you didn’t know your team as well as you believed.”

“Fuck you,” Chris growled. “You haven’t proven a God damned thing -- all you’ve done it break up the best ATF team in the country for no reason but your own ugly suspicions. You’re wrong.”

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you, Williams. And it’s not my men who should be under investigation.” Chris felt his gorge rise in his throat. Damn Travis anyway. Orrin could page him when he returned from his meeting. He was nearly out the door when he heard Travis’s voice from the outer office and knew he was trapped.

Travis entered. “Gentlemen.” His eyes swept the room, as if he expected to find evidence of a struggle in his office. The tension was thick enough to cut, and, judging from Larabee’s expression, nearly murderous. “Sit down.”

They did, warily, unable to disobey the direct order. Orrin took his place behind his desk. “The director has requested an internal affairs investigation of Ezra Standish and Vin Tanner’s involvement in the D’Amico matter.”

Chris’s stomach felt like a hot poker had punched through the wall. “Internal affairs?”

“Afraid that they’ll discover something you’ve missed?” Williams asked casually. “One way or another, it should clear things up, Larabee. I would think you’d be grateful to have the doubts resolved.”

“There are no doubts,” Chris said harshly. “You’ve told me, Orrin. Is there anything else you have to say?”

“Agent Larabee --” The tone of Travis’s voice was a warning Chris knew he couldn’t ignore. If it were just himself and Orrin in that office, maybe. But with Williams there, he couldn’t rely on their friendship to outweigh his anger.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized. “But an internal investigation reeks of a witch hunt. Vin and Ezra don’t deserve that sort of treatment.”

“It will be a fair investigation, Chris.”

“Of course it will.” He looked into Travis’s eyes, saw anger warring with sympathy, and didn’t know which emotion to believe. He was spared having to make that decision by the vibration of his pager at his waist. He looked down. Vin’s cell phone number showed in the display. “I’m sorry, Orrin. I have to get this.” He left the inner office and pulled out his phone, hitting the speed dial for Vin’s. He went out into the hallway and leaned against the wall, waiting for an answer.

“Hey, cowboy.”

Some of the tension that had built up in Chris relaxed when he heard the lazy rasp of Vin’s voice in his ear. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Seems D’Amico wants t’see me shoot.”

“What?”

Vin cleared his throat. “He called Ezra. Said he wants to see me shoot. Sounds like he thinks I’d do a job fer him.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, well, I cain’t exactly say that to him. We’re meetin’ at the Sportsmen’s Club gun range in an hour.”

“Think I’ll take a run out there. You always put on a good show, partner.”

“Might not be such a good idea, Chris.”

“They don’t know me. *You* won’t know me.”

“Chris, what’s goin’ on down there?”

“You don’t wanna hear it, trust me.”

“Tell me.”

Chris sighed and thrust a hand through his hair. He couldn’t remember a time when his head didn’t hurt from the top of his spine to the roots of his hair. “I just left Travis and Williams. The bastard’s pushed for an official Internal Affairs investigation.”

Vin’s snort of derision crackled in Chris’s ear. “They ain’t gonna find anything.”

“Not on you, Vin. But Ezra’s been in trouble before. They might not be so willing to overlook any blips on his record.”

“That’s a crock a’ shit, Larabee.”

“You and I know that. But it doesn’t look good. I thought you ought to know anyway.”

“You want me t’tell Ezra?”

“Maybe. I don’t know ...”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks.”

“See ya at the range, partner.”

“No, you won’t.” Chris disconnected. He stared at Travis’s door, then turned on his heel and walked away. He wasn’t going to go back in there with Williams. If Travis wanted to talk to him, he knew how to find him.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The Sportsmen’s Club was located in a lush park on the outskirts of Denver. For over a hundred years it had been the premier gathering place for Denver’s elite. Business men, social leaders, sports figures, entertainers. It boasted some fine facilities, including indoor and outdoor shooting ranges that were state of the art.

Vin and Ezra pulled up to the valet parking at the pillared entrance. Ezra handed the valet his keys and looked around at the luxurious facade. “My, my. Impressive, isn’t it?”

“You ever been here, before?”

“I have not, but I wouldn’t mind being a more frequent visitor. I’d be willin’ to bet there are some fine games to be had in the back rooms here.”

“Gambling?” Vin grinned at the southerner. “Ez, I’m shocked.”

“I know, I know. It’s a sad vice, but fortunately a profitable one. My instructions were to go to the front desk where we would be escorted to the shooting range.”

“Inside or out?”

Ezra shrugged. “That, I don’t know.”

Vin followed Ezra through double oak doors manned by doormen who looked like uniformed bouncers. Funny, he wouldn’t have thought a place like this needed muscle to keep out the riffraff. Ezra, wearing chinos and a salmon-colored Ralph Lauren polo, passed through with a gracious nod of his head and Vin followed his lead.

He sauntered in, knowing that he wasn’t exactly the sort of client who usually walked through those doors -- more like the fellers doing delivery at the back. Blue jeans, boots, a black T-shirt. Let’em stare. He wondered how Chris was going to get through those doors, and then he remembered Mary Travis. Bet she’d pull a few strings in exchange for a dinner with Chris.

Ezra went to the hospitality/visitor desk and gave his name. The young man at the desk disappeared into the back office, and a moment later a gentleman wearing a blazer with the emblem of the club on the breast pocket came out. He offered his hand. “Mr. Standish, Mr. Tanner. I’m Roger Anderson, the facilities director. Welcome to the Sportsmen’s Club. Mr. D’Amico called ahead to make the arrangements for you to use our ranges. If you will follow me?”

*Ranges.* Seemed like he was going to be tested indoors and out. Well, he could do that, too.

They followed Anderson to a porticoed entrance where they picked up a golf cart and were driven from the clubhouse to a less picturesque structure screened by a line of pine trees. Vin figured it for the indoor range. It was, and Ronnie Fazio was waiting inside the front door.

Vin’s hackles rose, and he tried to smooth them down a bit by telling himself that this was just another day on another shooting range. Didn’t matter if Fazio spit on his shoes. He wasn’t here to impress Fazio.

“You’re on time,” he said shortly.

“Of course.” Ezra smiled, pleasant until you looked into his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to keep Mr. D’Amico waiting.”

“Mr. D’Amico isn’t here. I’m reporting to him.”

“Oh.” Ezra’s raised brow spoke of disdain, and Vin was amused to see the color mottling Fazio’s face. Maybe he’d stroke out. “Well, then. Shall we get started? I’m sure we all have better things to do.”

“Watch it, or the only better thing you’ll be doing is attending your own funeral.”

“I tremble to think of it,” Ezra drawled and only winked when he saw Vin’s warning shake of his head.

They checked in at the desk where Vin was issued goggles and hearing protection, and given a pick of weapons. Without his own guns, he chose a nearly identical Sig-Sauer and a Remington 700 VS sniper rifle that had a nice balance to it and was standard police issue. His own gun was an M24 SWS, the Ranger sniper rifle he’d used in the army, but the Remington had a familiar enough feel to it. “These two.”

The shooting lanes were much like the ones he practiced on at the police range, only the amenities were more luxurious. He looked around. There was a long mirrored window high up on the wall behind him, and he knew that was for observers and silvered not so much for secrecy as to keep spectators from disturbing the shooters. Nice touch. He wondered if Chris was up there in the gallery, watching. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said Vin wouldn’t see him. He should have figured Chris would have known the facilities. He’d fit right in with the elite clientele. Probably had come as Travis’s guest.

An attendant came up to him, smiling. “Can I help you with anything, sir?” He set a pitcher of water and a towel on a bench behind Vin. “Our lanes are set up at twenty, fifty, and seventy-five feet. Automatic target return. If you need anything just wave your hand and someone will help you.”

“Just wave my hand,” Vin nodded. “Got it. Thanks.”

He picked up the Sig and turned to the targets. It had been more than a week since he’d shot for scores. The last time he’d fired his gun had been in the alley outside the Buell Arena, and he wasn’t sure his aim and stamina were back to par. He took a deep breath and chambered his magazine. Let the games begin.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Tanner was good. Very good. Troy D’Amico was impressed. He sat in a leather chair behind the mirrored glass and watched as Tanner put a bullet dead in the heart of the paper assailant time after time, distance beyond distance. He was looking forward to the rifle range. He leaned forward hungrily. He was so absorbed in his observation that he didn’t notice the tall blond man who came into the gallery and stood watching the exhibition until it was over.

“Pretty impressive,” the man said, inclining his head towards the range. “Must be a pro.”

“One of the finest,” D’Amico said. He brushed past Chris, not giving him a second look. Chris stayed in the gallery. He saw Vin take the goggles off, the muffling headphones. He looked tired, and Chris cursed softly. Ronnie Fazio was saying something to Ezra, who nodded. Then the three of them took off.

Chris had seen that Vin was taking the sniper rifle with him, and he knew they were going to the outdoor range. He asked the desk attendant for transportation and borrowed a pair of binoculars. He drove down to the range in one of the golf carts. Watching on the field range would be trickier, but he figured if D’Amico saw him, he could just say that he was interested in seeing Tanner shoot. If D’Amico gave him a sideways look, he’d back off.

He parked the golf cart at the edge of a line of trees and got out. The field range was set up in a large, flat meadow. Aside from the bleacher seating at some distance from the firing line, it looked oddly familiar. He could have been back in Quantico, at the FBI range. He wondered if Vin noticed the same thing. He settled his back against a tree trunk and looked through the binoculars. No sign of D’Amico. Had he decided he’d seen enough and left, or was he hidden, like Chris was? Chris panned the binocs along the trees and spotted him, at a vantage point nearly opposite Chris, but slightly elevated on a low hill. For some reason, he didn’t want Vin to know he was watching. Funny, when Chris wished Vin knew that *he* was watching.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

He was lucky. The day was relatively windless. The air was still and dry. The rifle was satisfactory -- not as good as his own weapon, but serviceable. The scope was a piece of shit, though, and that would make accuracy more difficult. Hell, why should he give a damn anyways?

The first target was ready. Vin took a breath, steadied himself. Set the butt against his shoulder and the stock against his cheek. Settled his elbow. Settled his pulse, and in that millisecond between heartbeats, drew a bead and fired.

Ten minutes later, he stopped and set the rifle down. Sweat was running from his hairline, down his cheek, and dripping on the ground beneath him. His arms were shaking. He wiped his forehead on his arm, picked up the rifle and stood up slowly. He handed the weapon to Fazio. “Reckon I’ve proved myself.” He turned to Ezra. “Can we go now?”

Fazio stepped forward. “Wait a minute --”

Ezra stood between Fazio and Vin, moving quickly to interpose his body between them. “No, we will not wait a minute. Mr. Tanner has demonstrated his talents, and there is no reason -- none -- for him to prove himself to you, to Troy D’Amico, or to God. And frankly, I don’t know why the hell you even bothered with this. It seems to me that you should already know.”

He touched Vin’s arm. “Mr. Tanner, may I offer you a ride?”

Silent, but more grateful than he could say, Vin followed Ezra to the golf cart. By the time they reached the clubhouse, he had recovered his strength, but he didn’t argue when Ezra coaxed him into the long bar and ordered whiskey for himself, water for Vin, and prime rib sandwiches. He had to laugh when Ezra told the waiter to add it to D’Amico’s tab.

“You’ve got brass balls there, Ez,” he said around a mouthful of honey-roasted cashews.

“I will take that as a compliment, Mr. Tanner.”

“S’meant as one.” He raised his glass slightly. “Brass balls.”

“Crude, but true.” Ezra grinned. “I have found it to be an asset in this line of work.”

“You’re right about that,” Vin acknowledged. The waiter returned with their sandwiches. Vin had already decided that he would choke it down just to spite D’Amico. As he took the first bite of the tender meat and flavorful bread, he discovered he was hungry as well. He waited for Ezra to finish eating, weighing his options about telling Ezra what Chris had told him. He figured there was no use in delaying it. “Chris called right before we came here.”

“And how is our esteemed leader?”

Vin snorted. “Steamed is more like it. He’d been in with Travis and Williams.”

Ezra’s brow lifted. “Charmin’ man.”

“Dangerous man. Ezra, he’s goin’ to Internal Affairs with what he has.”

Ezra snorted. “I was *undercover,* or has that small detail been overlooked?”

Vin shifted on the leather bench seat. “Chris says it looks like.”

Ezra crumpled up his napkin, pitched it on the table with a look of disgust. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Hell, Ez. I’s ready when we walked in the door.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
Part Sixteen

Chris was alone in the office, having ordered everyone else home at six. Buck had been the last hold-out, arguing until Chris promised that he wouldn’t stay later than seven. Even at that, he half-expected Buck to call every fifteen minutes to check and see if he was out the door. He spent most of the time taking care of paperwork that had piled up on his desk over the last few days. It was mindless work, but it kept his thoughts from useless and frustrating paths.

He kept seeing Vin on the firing range; the perfection of his marksmanship, and the cost of that perfection on his physical well-being. When he had finished, he had been exhausted. Chris had seen that even without the aid of the binoculars. He had waited until Ezra herded Vin to the golf cart, and then had hung around watching Fazio stalk the range.

He had been rewarded by the appearance of D’Amico. He drove up, spoke to Fazio, then the two of them had driven down to the targets, which D’Amico tore from the frames before they headed back to the clubhouse. Chris had sat in the shadows of the trees until the flesh on his arms pimpled from the growing chill of late afternoon.

His foul mood hadn’t abated much since.

“If this door was wood, it would’a burst into flames from them green lasers yer aimin’ at it, ol’ pard.” Buck said as he sauntered in and dropped with a sigh on Chris’s couch. “Thought you said you were leavin’?”

“I thought I sent you home,” Chris said sourly.

“An’ I went home. Stopped fer a beer at Inez’s, took JD back to the loft. Canceled my date --”

Chris’s eyebrow rose. “Canceled your date?”

“Well, delayed it for an hour. She’s willin’ t’wait.”

“I don’t need you sitting with me.”

“Hell, Chris. Y’ain’t looked in the mirror lately, have you?”

Chris scrubbed his fingers over his face, as if that could erase every line of pain and fatigue etched there. “I’m all right.”

Buck leaned forward. “You ain’t all right, Chris. I’ve been watchin’ you wear yourself down ever since Vin was shot. You ain’t eatin’, you ain’t sleepin’, and yer poppin’ those ulcer pills and pain killers like they was candy.”

“I’ve slept,” Chris objected.

“Yeah, when ya can’t keep your eyes open for another minute. And I bet they pop right back open after an hour.” Chris’s shoulders drooped and Buck pounced. “I’m right about that, Chris, and there ain’t no use in gettin’ all riled up at me. We’ve been through a lot of times -- good and bad -- so I figure I’ve earned the right to worry about you.” Buck’s bright blue eyes softened in concern.

“Thanks, Buck. I appreciate it.”

“Then shut down that damn computer and let me buy you dinner. Or maybe we’ll do take out and you can bunk with me and JD tonight. We’ve got a room and a bed for you.”

Chris slumped in his chair. “Feelin’ a bit like a package being passed from place to place, lately. Nate, Vin, you and JD... Josiah’s probably barring his door.”

Buck grinned. “Yer always welcome, Chris. You know that, right?”

“I’m gonna wear out my welcome real quick.”

“Nah. We’ll give ya fair warnin’. C’mon.” He jerked his head towards the door. “Let’s blow this pop stand, stud.”

Knowing he was defeated, Chris surrendered; too tired to argue and too lonely to turn Buck’s offer down. And at the back of his mind was the thought that maybe JD had heard back from his computer geek. He wanted something on Williams -- even it if was nothing but a grain of sand he could use to irritate the man.

He stared to shut down his computer. “Buck, why don’t you go on, and I’ll meet you at your place. I’ve got a couple stops to make.”

“Chris ...” Buck warned.

“The bank and the drugstore. That’s all.”

“Better not be anything else tucked in there, Larabee.”

“Get your ass outta here, before I change my mind.”

Buck left, and Chris switched the CPU off. He turned off his desk lamp, got up to get his coat. The floor was quiet -- this was not one of the areas of the building that ran 24/7, even if the agents were on call. Chris flipped off the office lights and closed the door. He walked down the long, tiled hall, his boot heels hollow on the linoleum. It was very dim, only the exit lights at either end of the hall were lit, and that should have been a warning to him. He got to the elevators, pushed the down button and turned towards the window at the end of the bay. If there hadn’t been a ghost of a reflection in the window, he would have been a dead man.

A wavering shape, dark. And something in Chris’s mind told him to drop, and he did, not even thinking or reacting consciously, but like he had done in the SEALs, drawing his pistol from his shoulder holster and firing a millisecond after the muzzle flash and sharp hiss of a silenced bullet left his assailant’s gun. But Chris’s sudden movement had disrupted his aim, and the bullet smacked into the window, shattering it into pebbles of glass that exploded over Chris’s hair. Instinctively, he sheltered his face and eyes from the flying glass, firing blindly into the dark hall, and knowing that the shooter had escaped.

The stairs! Chris sprinted for the nearest exit, shoved his shoulder into the door and burst through. He leaned over the rail, trying to see the flights below him and caught sight of a gloved hand on the rail. He wasn’t fool enough to fire blindly down the concrete stairwell. He gave chase down four flights; then heard the door open on the landing below him. *Shit*, once that door shut he might not be able to get out. He leaped over the rail, landing hard on the concrete floor, the shock vibrating all the way through his knees and thighs.

The door was still open a scant two inches, but was closing when Chris reached it, grabbed the edge and started to haul against the weight. A bullet scored sparks along the metal edge and he leaped back as a series of shots rang off the face of the door. Swearing, panting, he had no choice but the let the door close. He sank down to floor, chest heaving, body aching. He ran his hand through his hair, dislodging fragments of shattered glass. His fingers came away sticky with blood where one fragment, even pebbled as it was, had slashed his skin. *Fuck!*

Chris got to his feet and cracked the door cautiously. The hall was empty. He slipped out of the stairwell. The chime of the elevator bell and the door opening made him jump. He flattened himself against the wall, his arm swinging sideways aiming his gun into the car.

Empty.

Chris moved silently down the hall. A sound, the snick of a door closing. He whirled, cursed. Started to run back towards the stairs, then realized that it was too late. Too late. He took the elevator down to the lobby, grabbed one of the security guards.

“Did anyone leave this building in the last five minutes? Anyone?”

“No, sir.”

Chris flashed his badge. “There’s a window out on the twelfth floor. There were shots fired up there and on the eighth floor.”

The guard reacted instantly, using his two-way to call out reinforcements and sending them up to the floors to comb for the assailant. Chris figured that within five minutes, the place would be swarming with investigative teams. He resigned himself to a much longer evening than he had anticipated.

The guard was looking at him in concern. “Sir, are you all right? You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing. A cut.”

“I’ve got two guys checking out the floors, and the DPD is on the way.”

“Thanks.” He sat down on the edge of a polished granite planter, pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at the trickle of blood down his cheek. It was slowing and Chris didn’t think it would need stitching. He worked his neck from side to side, stretching out the stiffness and residual tension. He took out his cell phone and called Buck to tell him he was running late, not going into details, and knowing that Buck would probably be on his tail in five minutes, anyway.

“Agent Larabee?”

Chris looked up at man addressing him. “Yeah?”

“I’m Detective Aarons. Looks like you got a situation here. Care to tell us what happened?”

Chris rubbed his eyes. “Short or long?”

“Let’s start with the short version.”

“I had left the office for the evening, waiting for the elevator when I saw a man’s reflection in the mirror. He pulled a gun. I ducked down, his shot hit the window. He took off down the stairwell, I followed to the eighth floor. He fired five, maybe six shots at the exit door. I guess the metal deflected the bullets. I exited the stairwell and looked for him, but he was gone. I think he pushed the call button for the elevator as a decoy, so I’d think he’d gone down that way. But I’m pretty sure he went out the door at the other end of the hall.”

“Can you describe him?”

Chris shook his head. “I only caught that glimpse of him in the window. He was wearing a dark jacket and pants. I think he might have had a ski mask over his face, but honestly I was too busy staying alive to really catch a good look at him.” He thought for a moment. “And gloves, he was wearing black leather gloves, so I don’t think you’ll find any prints.”

The cop looked at him. “I thought security around here was pretty tight since 9/11. How’d he get a gun in here?”

Chris raised a brow. “Officer, this is a building full of people who are licensed to carry guns. Finding one wouldn’t be too hard.” He felt the blood slipping down his cheek, and he pressed the cloth against it.

Aaron scribbled his responses on a notepad. “Could this have anything to do with the investigation of your two agents?”

“Looks like bad news travels fast.”

“Lead story. Sorry, I recognized your name.” He closed his notebook. “It might have just been some crazy out to take revenge on the federal government. They seem to grow outta the rocks around here.”

“Mighta been,” Chris agreed, but not really believing it for a minute. An outsider would have had a hell of a time smuggling a gun into the building, and wouldn’t have had the familiarity with the layout of stairwells, elevator bays, and exits that the shooter did. He wasn’t going to help the Denver PD do their job by making that obvious suggestion -- not yet. He wanted some time to think this through, away from the scene and the adrenaline that could cloud his recall. Better for them, and for him.

There was a stir at the doorway and Buck charged through, flashing his badge and clearing the way to where Chris sat. He had to smile; the Red Sea would have parted for Buck Wilmington coming to rescue a friend.

“You wanna tell me what the hell is going on here?” Buck took a stance, his jacket held away from his shoulder holster as if he expected a challenge.

“Somebody took a shot at me.”

“No shit.” He tilted Chris’s chin. “Looks like they got you.”

“No. Piece of glass is all. It’s nothing.” He moved away from Buck’s touch. “You got here pretty fast.”

“I heard the radio call on the scanner. Somethin’ told me it was you causin’ all the ruckus.”

Chris grinned. “Let me see if I can get out of here.” He got up and walked over the Detective Aarons. “You need anything else from me?”

“Not right now. You got a number where you can be reached?”

Chris dug in his wallet and took out a business card. He borrowed Aaron’s pen and wrote his pager number. “Don’t lose it,” he said, and Aarons gave him an amused look.

“I won’t.”

Cbris’s phone beeped, and he sighed. “Larabee.”

“Chris, it’s Orrin. What the hell is going on down there? Are you all right?”

“Someone took a shot at me. Took out a window instead. I’m fine.”

“Security get them?”

“No.”

“Cameras?”

“How the hell should I know? Listen, Orrin. I’m beat. I was heading out when it happened. The guy was wearing a mask and gloves. Even if he is on camera, I’m not going to be able to ID him. I’ve given a statement to the PD, and I’d really like to get out of here and deal with everything else in the morning.”

“Stay in touch.”

In other words, sleep with his cell phone and pager. As if he ever did anything else. “I will.”

Travis must have picked up on his exhaustion. “You *are* all right?” This time, the tone was that of a worried friend, not the curt supervisor.

“Yes. I’m all right.”

“My office, first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Chris disconnected. He turned to Buck. “Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.”

“You want to ride with me?” Buck asked.

“No thanks. I still need to get to the bank.”

Buck laughed. “No need. Dinner’s on me.” He draped an arm over Chris’s shoulder. “C’mon pard, time to leave this all behind, okay?”

“Okay.” Chris yielded; unhappy, but aching and flat from the adrenaline letdown.

“I’ll be watching you in my rearview mirror, so don’t get any ideas about peelin’ off in another direction. You got that?”

“Yes, Buck. I got that.” And then on the heels of his words, another thought. “Buck, you hear anything from Vin or Ezra?”

“No.”

No explanation, but Chris could see the worry in Buck’s eyes as he replied. He got out his cell phone. No answer on Vin’s; the answering machine at Ezra’s. He’d noticed that neither of them had worn their pagers to the range, which didn’t surprise him. There could be a simple explanation neither man answered their phones. Knowing Vin, he’d probably turned his off to shoot, and forgotten to turn it on -- or maybe they were meeting with D’Amico. Maybe they were drinking beer in a bar and couldn’t hear the phones ringing. Or ... they could be in trouble. Acid burned in his stomach and he reached into his pocket for an antacid.

Buck sighed. “Told ya so.”

“What?”

“Ya can’t live on them things, Chris.”

“I’ll be better once I hear from them, Buck.”

“Yeah.” They were standing at the garage entrance. “See you in my mirror, Chris.”

“Got yer back.” They smiled at each other. It was an old ritual, and the familiarity alone was soothing. Buck waited until Chris was safely in the Ram before he went to his own vehicle.

They arrived at the loft a short time later. JD had ordered from the diner down the street and per Buck’s instruction had stayed away from their inflammatory chili and wings, settling for plain roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, freshly baked bread, and salad.

Chris sank down in one of their encompassing leather armchairs. Exhaustion was setting in and he felt the only thing keeping him upright was his worry over Vin and Ezra. Buck set a glass of whiskey on the table at his elbow. “I know this ain’t what the doctor ordered, but I won’t tell Nate if you won’t.”

“What Nate doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Chris picked up the glass and took a sip. He was impressed; Buck had poured the good stuff. He must have looked as bad as he felt. He dug out his cell phone and tried Vin again. Still no answer. The same for Ezra. *Damn!*

“JD, you hear anything from Jimmy Constantine?”

“I’m waiting for him to call me.”

Chris was beginning to wonder what the use all this technology was if no one else bothered to use it. There wasn’t anything he could do but wait. And eat. The food was good and his stomach didn’t object to its weight. The whiskey was warming, and as tempting as it was to have another glass, he didn’t ask for a refill. He wanted to be sharp for any news from Vin and Ezra. Didn’t need to be falling asleep in the chair like the ‘old man’ moniker Vin used to aggravate him.

Still, wouldn’t hurt to close his eyes for a few ...

Buck came in with a cup of coffee and saw him dozing there. Was about time, Buck thought with both satisfaction and concern. Chris’s face was lax, his hands loosely clasped on his stomach. There was still a scrawl of dried blood near his hairline, but the cut had closed. When he was asleep, the man looked almost ... vulnerable. Buck returned the coffee to the kitchen.

Chris’s cell phone rang a few minutes later, and Buck snatched it off the table. “Yeah?”

“Buck?” Vin sounded surprised, but not stressed, and Buck felt his tension ease back a bit.

“Yeah, it’s me. And no, you didn’t dial the wrong number. Where the hell have you and Ezra been?”

“Somethin’ wrong with Chris?”

Buck got up and went into the kitchen, out of Chris’s earshot. “Are you and Ezra all right?”

“We’re holed up in a hotel.”

“What?”

“There’s about fifty reporters parked outside of Ezra’s place, and he wasn’t too keen on stayin’ at mine, so he took a room. I’m about to head home.”

“No reporters in Purgatorio?”

Vin snorted. “Not at this time a’night. What about Chris?”

Buck sighed. “Somebody took a shot at him.”

“Shit! Is he okay?”

“Yeah, the shooter missed, got the window by the elevators instead. Took off .”

“Then why the hell are you answerin’ his phone?”

“He’s sleeping. Call back in an hour?”

“Larabee’s jist a bundle a’ nerves, ain’t he?”

“He’s plumb wore out, Vin. And worryin’ about you and Ez ain’t helpin’.” He could hear Tanner’s soft sigh. “Just call back, you hear?”

“Soon as I get home.”

“Watch your back. It’s gettin’ ugly out there.”

“No shit, Bucklin. But thanks anyway. Later.”

Buck returned to the living room and set the phone back on the table. Chris hadn’t moved. He called his date to reschedule their evening. She’d be greeted with a bouquet of flowers at her desk in the morning. JD was holed up in his room with his laptop, waiting for Jimmy Constantine to contact him. Buck poured himself a drink, put Garth Brooks on the CD player turned low, and settled in with the paper he hadn’t had a chance to read that morning.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7*

Vin pushed disconnect and clipped his phone on his belt. Ezra was standing at the window, turned sideways and looking like a man who was trying to present the smallest target possible to his enemies. “You think they’re gonna find you here, Ez?”

“Never underestimate the power of the press, Mr. Tanner.”

“Ya want me t’stay?”

Ezra turned away from the window. The annoyed crease between his brows was answer enough. “I am an armed federal agent. I don’t require a bodyguard.”

Vin raised his hands. “Fine. Jist thought I’d offer. Wouldn’t blame ya ‘r think less of ya if you’d said yes.”

Ezra’s expression eased. “I appreciate the sentiment, I do. But I shall be perfectly fine. This hotel is known for its commitment to the privacy and security of its guests.”

“Well, then I reckon if ya don’t need me, I’ll head on out.”

“Perhaps I should ask if you want to stay.”

Vin laughed. “No thanks, pard. Be better off in my own place.” He picked up his denim shirt from the back of an elegant chair. “When d’ya think we’ll hear from D’Amico?”

“In his own good time, I fear.”

“Ez, what does he want us to do? Why’d he want to see me shoot?”

“I don’t know,” Ezra said quietly. “Whatever the reason, I’m afraid it is not a pretty one.”

“Never thought it was,” Vin answered, just as quietly. “See ya, Ez.”

“Give my regards to Mr. Larabee.”

“Sure thing. Lock yer, door.” He nodded shortly, left the room, and waited until he heard Ezra put the night latch on. He pulled his gun from the ankle holster and stuck it in his belt at the small of his back, flipping the tails of his shirt over it. There were cameras at the elevator bay, which reminded Vin of something, but just as the thought was about to form, the elevator door opened and his hand went to his back, only to drop to his side when two women got out on the floor. There was no one else. Chiding himself for being jumpy, he waited for the next car and took it down the eight flights to the lobby.

He’d driven his jeep from Ezra’s place when they’d dodged the reporters, figuring they’d follow Ezra’s BMW rather than his ragtop. It was a short walk to the parking lot, and a twenty minute drive to Purgatorio. Vin kept his eye in his review mirror the entire time, but if he was being tailed they were good enough to escape detectio. That left out the possibility of reporters, but not Fazio and his goons. He wasn’t worried about Ronnie -- they had a stake in keeping him alive -- but there were other enemies out there, and right now Vin couldn’t even put a name to them.

There were no reporters lurking on his doorstep; he’d figured as much, and no other threats that he could detect. He parked in his customary place, and, with his hand on his gun, hurried inside. He walked past the elevator, and, as he did, the thought that had been a shadow in the back of his mind came to the fore.

*Shit.* Larabee’s shooter had to be an insider! With all the security since 9/11 no outsider could have smuggled a weapon inside, and if he had got his hands on a gun already inside the building, he *had* to have had help. Vin’s mind was working furiously, he sprinted up the stairs, opened his door, and even as he secured it behind him, he was reaching for his phone and pressing the speed dial.

“Larabee.” Chris sounded crisp, alert. The sleep must have done him good.

“It’s me.”

“You and Ezra okay?”

“Yeah. Jist bein’ hounded by reporters. How the hell’d they get Ezra’s address and phone number?”

“I’d guess it was insider information.”

Vin sighed. “That ain’t all that came from inside”

“The shooter.” No question there.

“Figured you thought of that.”

“Pretty hard not to. Wasn’t the first thing that popped into the PD’s mind.”

“You tell ‘em otherwise?”

“Not yet. I’d like to think on it for a while. And I’m waiting for JD to hear back from Jimmy Constantine.”

Vin could hear the weariness returning to Chris’s voice. “Think it’ll be soon?”

“Don’t know. You hear back from D’Amico?”

“Not a word. Cain’t help hopin’ that I flunked his test.”

Chris laughed. “You didn’t. Trust me, I was there.”

Vin smiled slightly. “Thought you might have been. I’ll let you know what happens. Right now, all I want is to crawl into bed, get some shut-eye, and try to fergit this day.”

“Wish it could be so easy.”

Vin laughed softly. “Hell, when have we ever done easy? ‘Night, cowboy.”

He heard Chris disconnect. He turned off his own phone and turned off his lights. For a few minutes, he stood by the window looking out at Denver’s night skyline. Somewhere in the vista was Buck’s loft, Mercy General, Josiah’s half-way house. Made him feel less alone, looking at those anonymous lights, and knowing that he had friends behind a few of them. He sighed and drew his blinds, toed off his boots. He padded into the bathroom and turned on the overhead light. Not good. He looked drawn, pale, and he couldn’t blame it all on the fluorescent fixture. He splashed some water on his face, took two extra-strength Tylenol caplets, brushed his teeth, used the toilet. He turned out the light, went into the bedroom. He didn’t bother undressing or turning down the covers. He pulled the quilt Nettie Wells had made for him over his shoulders. Wrapped in that comforting familiarity, he drifted off, his cell phone turned on and laid a scant inch from his hand.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7*

JD sat hunched over his computer, his fingers tapping away, his hazel eyes sharp and focused on the screen as he scrolled down the lines of text in the Adobe document on display. He was concentrating so entirely that he didn’t even hear Buck come into his room. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Buck set a brotherly hand on his shoulder.

“Geez, Buck! You trying to give me a heart attack?” he gasped.

Buck grinned. “At your age?”

“Yeah, well maybe hangin’ around you is aging me.”

Buck laughed. “Son, you’re still wet behind the ears. Got a ways to go before you get old as me.”

JD snorted. “Like you’re so mature.” He bent back over his computer, patently ignoring Buck’s presence.

Buck leaned over his shoulder. “What you got there?”

JD shrugged. “Just searching some databases for old records. I thought that maybe I could find something on Williams.”

“Thought you had done that already?”

“Some. I forgot about these. Did you know Williams used to be ATF instead of Treasury? He moved over three years ago. I was trying to find out why.”

“JD, guys change jobs all the time,” Buck sighed. “Maybe he wanted something less invigorating. Let’s face it, kid, being shot at, exposed to explosive devices, and hanging around felons ain’t everybody’s idea of a good time. Maybe he just got tired.”

“Or maybe he just got transferred ...” JD’s voice quivered with an emotion that made Buck bend closer to the screen, suddenly interested in what was there.

“You got a reason he was sent over?”

JD shook his head. “I’ve tried, but those files are closed. Maybe Jimmy can open a few doors. All I can figure is that four years ago Ed Williams was in Phoenix working in the Regional office, then was suddenly transferred to Treasury. He was in Washington for two years, and then came out here.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “My head feels like concrete,” he moaned.

Buck patted his shoulder. “Get some rest, JD. You done enough for now. Won’t be good for anybody if you can’t do your work tomorrow. Gotta stay fresh.”

“Is Chris still sleeping?”

“Yeah. Vin’s supposed to call back in a bit. I’ll wake him up then.”

JD looked suddenly sober and much older than his years. “This is a bad one, ain’t it, Buck?”

“’Bout as bad as it gets, kid.” Then he winked. “But that ain’t stopped us yet.” He closed the door, and JD turned back to his computer screen, determined to find the clue he was looking for on the screen in front of him

Chris was awake when Buck returned to the living room. His cell phone was in his hand. “You hear from Junior?” Buck asked.

“Yeah. Nothing new since you talked to him. He made it home safely – no reporters camped out on his doorstep.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Buck laughed. “Cowards.” He fixed a bright blue study on his friend. Chris seemed a little better for having rested and heard from Vin. He still looked too thin and too tense; Larabee never was much for being a desk jockey, and Buck figured that was wearing heavily on him. Never mind the migraines and ulcers that were plaguing him. What he needed was a good dose of action. “You want a drink, Chris?”

Chris “Not unless you’ve got something that won’t wear a hole in my stomach.”

“Reckon I can find something. And JD has some interesting information about Williams.”

“Really?” Chris stood up and stretched. “Be right back. Tell me then. I’ve got to make a run to the Ram for my pills.”

“Chris, don’t assume you’re safe just ‘cause you’re parked right outside the door.”

Chris nodded; he didn’t need to tell Buck that he never assumed he was safe anywhere. He’d been proved right too many times.

The air was fresh and cool outside; the earlier shower had cleared out the heavy stillness Chris had felt at the range. The streets were well-lit and quiet, no sign of trouble, but he was cautious out of habit. The faint, dry, tug of the scab at his hairline was enough reminder that someone had just tried to kill him. He disarmed the security on the Ram, opened his glove box and took out two pill bottles. He shoved them in his pocket, then took his cell phone off his belt and called Ezra.

“Mr. Larabee, I’m honored.” Ezra’s wry drawl was nearly as reassuring as Vin’s voice had been earlier. Chris grinned.

“Cut the BS, Ezra. Just checking in. You all right?”

“No one has attempted to asphyxiate me this evening, thank you.”

“You hear from D’Amico?”

“If I had, I would have called. I think we can assume that he will not be in contact this evening.”

“Any thoughts on why he wanted to watchVin shoot?”

“He didn’t drop a clue, other than the obvious conclusion that he wants Vin to kill someone.” His breath drew in a bit, as if speaking the words had made this whole sordid business more than speculation.

“That much I guessed. The question is who,” Chris said. “Call me if you hear anything.”

“I take it Mr. Tanner made it safely to his apartment without being accosted by members of the media?”

“Safe and sound. Keep in touch, Ezra.”

“I will do my best.”

Chris locked up the Ram, armed it, and returned to the loft. Buck handed him a ginger ale and Chris settled in a chair. JD joined them a few minutes later and handed Chris a printout of the report he had found. He flopped down on the sofa and sat there in a boneless slouch.

“You figure anything out?” Buck asked him.

JD forced open a red-rimmed eye. “Maybe ... I don’t know. Chris, do you remember anything about a cover-up in the Phoenix office three, maybe four years ago?”

Chris kept reading, trying to recall the whisper of a hushed up scandal, and unsure if it had anything to do with what JD was looking for. “There was an investigation of some licenses that had been issued to dealers with criminal records. If I remember right, it was blamed on a computer foul-up.”

JD slanted him a look. “Right. Williams left the ATF right after that and joined the Treasury Department.”

“Voluntarily?”

“I don’t think so. It looks like he was transferred. Don’t you remember?”

“No.” Chris answered tersely, and Buck stepped in, recognizing the growing darkness and frustration in Larabee. JD didn’t know where Chris was three years ago – hell, a kid didn’t think of things like death, bereavement, and guilt. He got out of his chair and walked over to the sofa.

“JD, maybe we should call it a night and come back to this fresh in the morning. Okay?”

“Sure – but I thought you wanted this pronto. I even gave up a date with Casey.”

Buck shook his head. “The supreme sacrifice, and I’m sure that Chris will tell you how much he appreciates your dedication, kid.” He laid an arm over Dunne’s shoulder and pulled him aside. “But right now, he’s about as close to the bone as he c’n get. Think ya ought t' give him some space and time. Things’ll look better in the morning, okay?” He lifted a brow, and JD nodded in assent. “Why don’t you give that pretty li’l gal of yours a call, and let me deal with Larabee, hmm?”

“Dammit, Buck! I hate it when you talk to me like I’m five years old,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, kid. Bad habit.”

“Yeah, well, kick it. Okay?” He went upstairs and Buck turned back to Chris.

Larabee had his thousand yard stare going – so far beyond the walls of the loft, that Buck wasn’t even going to guess what he was seeing – or not seeing. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. He figured Larabee needed a drink more than he needed to worry about his ulcer. He poured a shot in a glass and set it down. “You okay?”

“When he asked me ... God, Buck. Three years ago, I didn’t care if I lived or died, much less give a shit about some half-buried scandal in Phoenix. How could I remember something that seemed so – so pointless?”

“Chris, you know I’m the last man on earth t’say ya didn’t have the right to be the way you were back then ...”

“I hear a ‘but’ added on to that sentence.”

“You wanna tell me what that might be?”

“Three years ago I would have killed you for suggesting that I should have cared about anything else.”

“As I recall, you nearly did,” Buck said softly.

Chris looked up at him, his green eyes so dark that they were nearly black. “I was a sorry son-of-a-bitch, Buck. You were trying to help and I didn’t want to hear it.”

“You were just hurtin’, Chris. I hated to see you like that.”

“Water under the bridge, Buck. Water under the bridge.” He stood up, stretched. “I can’t do a thing about it, now. I tell you, that advice you gave to JD about getting some rest sounds real good to me right now.”

“Think you’ll sleep?”

“Think I’ll get horizontal and see what happens.” He squeezed Buck’s shoulder briefly and climbed the wrought iron stairs to the loft. He walked past JD’s room and heard his low voice speaking; judging from the light, tender tone, he was talking to Casey. Chris smiled, remembering first love.

When he settled in bed, he set his cell phone next to the pillow, close at hand. He lay awake, listening to Buck moving around downstairs, then coming up and saying goodnight to JD. He knew Buck was standing outside his door, and smiled, appreciating the thought. Most times he’d deny that he was a lucky man, but not tonight. With that thought, he drifted off into an exhausted, dreamless slumber.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7*

Vin woke to the rumble of thunder the next morning. He opened an eye, figured it was around seven, though the darkness of the morning made it hard to judge. Instinct told him it was time to get up for work, and he started to gather himself before he remembered that he had no work to go to, thanks to Williams and his investigations. He listened for a few minutes as the storm drew closer, huddled deeper into his quilt and went back to sleep.

The second time he surfaced, he shoved the quilt down and sat up, uncertain what had waked him. The storm had faded to a whisper of rain. He pushed his tangled hair off his forehead and stumbled out of bed. He felt lethargic, throat dry as a husk, fuzzy-brained. He went into the bathroom, turned on his shower, prayed that the water would be hot. It would take a while for the heat to travel up to the fourth floor, so he went to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker. He took a deep drink from the carton of orange juice in the refrigerator, wiped his mouth and went to take his shower.

He felt better afterwards and a cup of coffee helped, but that didn’t tie up the loose ends of his life. He wanted to call Chris, but decided against it. Wouldn’t be above that bastard Williams to monitor his calls. Better stay as far away from Larabee as possible. It seemed like the only person out there for him was Ezra, and it was too damn early to call on him. He opened the window in the living room. The pavement below was pockmarked with puddles of water from the earlier rain. Cars driving past threw curving splashes of water onto the sidewalk, and a few doors down, kids were playing in the puddles, careless of the filthy water or the dangerous traffic passing just a few feet from them.

From the floors below him, he could hear the sound of TV’s turned too high and radios too loud; salsa music warring with Sally Jesse Raphael. A car careened around the corner and Vin shouted at the kids to get back – they did – one kid gave him the finger, another a smile.

Purgatorio.

He drew back inside, pulled on his boots and pocketed his cell phone. It was time for Ezra to wake up. He called the hotel, and was told that Mr. Standish had checked out an hour earlier. That was a surprise. He’d have thought Ezra would sleep until at least nine. Maybe he’d needed the security of home, just as Vin had the night before.

He stopped at a Starbucks to pick up a grande latte – Ezra’s favorite, and a tall coffee with sugar and milk for himself. He figured the reporters from last night had given up, and it was too early for them to be haunting Ezra’s doorstep this morning. He was right. He parked unmolested, took the extra key from its hiding place just in case Ezra was still sleeping, and let himself in.

Water was running upstairs. “Ez?” he called and started up. “Hey, Ezra! It’s me – you decent?” He went into the bedroom. “Ezra!” He yelled outside the bathroom door. The water stopped running, he heard the shower door open, and suddenly he was facing Standish, wrapped in a terry robe, wreathed in steam, and holding a gun.

“Guess y’ain’t had yer coffee yet,” Vin backed off, grinning.

“You might have called,” Ezra said. “Mr. Larabee would have torn me from limb to limb if I had decided to shoot first and ask questions later.” But his green eyes were calm, and he laid the gun on his dresser, casual, as he wouldn’t have been if he’d been taken by surprise.

“Didn’t want t’wake you up,” Vin moved aside. “Got some coffee here for ya.” He waited until Ezra took a few sips before he started questioning him. He leaned against the dresser and drank his own coffee for a minute. “Thought you’d still be at the hotel, Ez. Somethin’ happen?”

“You might say so. Ronnie Fazio called at the crack of dawn.”

“Jesus, what did he want?”

Ezra sat on the bed and drank coffee. “Lunch, and a meeting with D’Amico at the Sportsmen’s club.”

“Hell.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

Vin pushed his spine off the wall. “I’ll let ya git dressed. I’ll page Chris. Maybe he c’n get away long enough to make a secure call.”

Ezra’s brow peaked. “Secure?”

“Guess you don’t know ... It’s startin’ to look like Williams is bent. We aint’ got proof, but JD’s working on it.”

“Honest Ed Williams is crooked?” Ezra grinned. “There is justice in this world, Mr. Tanner.”

Vin snorted. “Justice is blind, Ez. Don’t fergit it.” He closed the door and went downstairs to page Chris.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7*

Chris drove to work in the same thunderstorm that had waked Vin. Traffic was snarled and ugly, matching his mood. He had a simmering headache fed by a sense of dread that not even breakfast with Buck and JD had been able to lift. Their cheerful, affectionate banter had left him hollow and aching for the past. Hopeless.

He parked in the garage and took the elevator up to the twelfth floor. The window had been covered with a sheet of plywood; yellow caution tape marked it off until a glazier could come and repair the glass. Chris supposed it would be bulletproof like the windows that were being installed on the lower floors. Leave it to the government to be a day late and a dollar short.

The office was an alien place with two desks empty out of six. Vin’s looked oddly neat without the clutter he accumulated over the course of a week scattered over the surface, and Ezra’s seemed naked minus his ever-present cup of coffee.

Chris opened his office, tossed his jacket on his sofa, and sat at his desk, staring at his dark computer screen, and trying to get up the ambition to turn it on. He reached for his phone instead. Three messages. One from Orrin Travis asking him to return the call as soon as he got in. One from Ed Williams, requesting Ezra’s files, one from Rain, checking up on him. The sour taste left by Williams request was overlaid by the sweetness of Rain’s concern.

He called Orrin, was told he was at a breakfast meeting. He ignored Williams and called Rain instead, surprised when he got her in person and not her answering service. Her voice was sweet, too, when she asked him how he was.

“I’m all right. I was at Buck’s place last night.”

“Have you been taking your prescriptions?”

“Yes, Doctor Jackson.”

“Don’t take that tone of voice with me, Chris Larabee,” she scolded gently. “It’s for your own good.”

“I know.”

“Then keep it up, you hear me?”

“I will.” He was about to disconnect when he added. “Thanks, Rain.”

“You’re welcome.” The instant he hung up, his pager beeped. Chris recognized the number. Vin. Williams could go hang. Chris retrieved his coat from the couch and left the office.

Walking fast, he nearly ran into Buck coming towards him from the elevators. Buck tried to snag his arm, but Chris was already past him. “Hey, stud –“

“I’m going out. Be back in half an hour. If Orrin calls, tell him I’ll be in touch.” The words were tossed over Chris’s shoulder.

“But –” Buck protested to Chris’s retreating back. “Thanks for the update,” he muttered. “That’s the trouble with this job, no communication ...”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris drove two blocks to a small coffee shop, parked and went inside. He ordered black coffee and wheat toast, and sat in a booth at the back of the restaurant. Vin picked up on the first ring of his cell phone.

“Hey cowboy, took ya long enough.”

“Sorry. Thought it would be better if I got away from the office to make this call.”

“Things are that bad?” Vin asked.

“Williams is asking for Ezra’a files. And just walking down the hall this morning, I could hear the whispers behind my back.”

“D’Amico wants to meet again.”

That made Chris sit up fast. “When?”

“This afternoon. At the Sportsmen’s Club. Got a feeling this time he’s ready to get down to business.”

“I can’t be there.”

“I know. I’ll let you know what’s cookin’ as soon as I can, Chris.”

“Do that.” Chris felt as if the noose around his temples had just been tightened another twist. “Watch your back.”

“Hell, my problems’ll be starin’ right at me. You’re the one with vultures at yer back.”

Chris shivered. “Take it easy, partner. Call me as soon as you can.”

“I will.”

After they disconnected, Chris felt empty. His coffee was cool, bitter, but he drank it and ate a sliver of toast before it began sticking in his throat like a gag. He threw enough money on the table to cover his bill and returned to the office, dreading what the day would bring next.

The day brought a second irate phone call from Ed Williams, demanding Ezra’s files. Chris closed his eyes and counted to ten. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get them to you when I have a chance,” he replied tiredly. “I’ve got three active cases that landed on my desk this morning, Travis is asking for a meeting, and frankly, you’re way down on my To Do list.” He didn’t bother to disguise the acid in his voice.

“I’ll file a complaint of obstruction unless those files are on my desk at the close of the day.”

*Go fuck yourself.* He’d have said it if he could. “They’ll be there.” He hung up, seething. Seized on the first object at hand – a pencil holder – and threw it against the wall at the same moment Buck appeared in the doorway.

He warded off the missile with his forearm. “Whoa there! What’s got you so riled?”

Chris leaned back in his chair, his hands over his eyes. “God, Buck. Why the hell are there so many assholes in this fucked-up world?”

“So we have jobs?” Buck shrugged. “Hell, Chris. I don’t know. But I reckon I know who the chief asshole is.”

“He wants Ezra’s files. He’s threatening to report me for obstructing a Federal investigation.”

“Can he do that?” Buck crouched down to pick up the pencil holder and its scattered contents.

“He can try. I think Orrin would laugh him out of his office, but you never know.”

“You gonna give him what he wants?”

“Don’t have much of a choice. And I kinda doubt Ezra has anything in his files that he wouldn’t want Orrin to see. If he does, he’s not as smart as I think he is. But Williams can damn well sit there with his thumb up his asshole until I’m ready to send them.”

Buck grinned. “God, you’re a silver-tongued devil, Larabee.”

Chris grinned back, and for the first time that morning felt the tension in his neck and shoulders ease back a bit. “Vin and Ezra are meeting with D’Amico and Ronnie Fazio this afternoon.”

Buck’s expression turned thoughtful. “Funny, I would’a never thought D’Amico would trust a prick like Fazio to be his right-hand man. The old man sure didn’t. Why does Troy?”

“Poor judge of character?”

“Nah, there’s got to be something else going on. You want me to get on that?”

Chris studied Buck speculatively. “Instinct?”

“Yeah – maybe. Give me a couple hours, okay?”

Chris picked up the files on his desk. “Three new cases, down two agents. You do the math.”

“An hour?”

It must be important if Buck was begging. Chris made his decision. “Get JD and Nathan started on the new files. You and Josiah take an hour each and work on your contacts. I’ve got to see Orrin.” He stood up, grimacing at the pain from his stiff muscles. “See me at noon.”

“You got it.” Buck saluted him with the edge of the folders and left the office. Chris went into the small bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Recalling his promise to Rain, he took his meds and went up to Travis’s office.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7*

The routine was pretty much the same it had been before: Vin and Ezra drove out to the Sportsmen’s Club and were greeted at the desk by the courteous Mr. Anderson, the facilities manager. They were then shown not to the restaurant as Vin had expected, but to the indoor firing range. Vin wasn’t sure what to make of it – if D’Amico wanted to see him shoot, all he had to do was ask, and Vin would have done it. The uncertainty made him antsy. He cast a sidelong look at Ezra. Standish looked as nervous as he ever did – which was not at all, until you saw his fingers clenching and unclenching around air. Wasn’t what he had expected either. And that only deepened Vin’s apprehension.

The range was deserted; by accident or design, Vin couldn’t tell. He glanced up at the mirrored wall and wondered who was behind it today. Wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“Got a bad feelin’ about this, Ez,” he said, his voice nothing more than a rasp of air from his lips.

“I am afraid I concur with that sentiment,” Ezra whispered back. “But I have no interest in turning my back and walking out.”

“I’m with ya there, pard.” He walked cautiously towards the desk. “Anybody home?” And whirled when he was answered by the measured paces of someone coming from the back room.

Troy D’Amico. Vin thought of how he had seemed at the restaurant – urbane and smooth – but the hint of unease was gone, like he’d made decisions since then. Cemented his sense of power and control. He was cold and smooth, ice-hard. Things had changed. Or he thought they had changed. Illusion or reality? Vin didn’t know, and not knowing made the hair on his neck prickle with warning.

“This a private party?” Vin drawled. No sense in being anything less than what D’Amico expected.

D’Amico made an elegant gesture with his hand, like a king showing off his lands. “If you want to call it that.”

“Wasn’t I good enough the first go ‘round?” Vin asked, ingenuous, knowing that D’Amico wasn’t fooled at all.

“You met my expectations,” D’Amico said.

“Might I inquire as to the nature of those expectations?” Ezra spoke up and came to stand next to Vin.

“Perhaps I should ask you what sort of expectations two disgraced and suspended agents have with the ATF?”

That hurt. More even than hearing Mary Travis report on their suspensions. Distanced by the camera, it had seemed like something that was happening in a cop show – not in his life. To hear D’Amico say it made it seem real, and dirty. Next to him, he felt Ezra shift uneasily and figured he felt the same way.

“What are you offering?” Ezra asked, cool and unruffled by D’Amico’s

“A future.” D’Amico set his hand on Ezra’s arm. “Shall we discuss this over lunch? I took the liberty of arranging to have it sent here. I thought the setting seemed ... appropriate.”

*Appropriate for what?* Vin wondered as he followed D’Amico and Ezra. They went up to the mirrored room where a linen-covered table had been set for three. Silverware and glittering crystal. A carafe of blood-red wine, and a single orchid in a vase. Pale green petals and a crimson throat; Vin shivered, remembering something he had heard about orchids. They were parasitic, sucking life from other plants, beautiful but predatory.

“Please, gentlemen, join me?”

Like they had a choice. Vin slid into a chair, making certain there was a wall at his back and enough space to escape. He caught Ezra looking at him, wry and amused, but understanding his caution. If D’Amico noted his placement, it didn’t show on his face.

Two waiters appeared with trays. Salads made with unfamiliar and spiky looking lettuce, baskets of warm, fragrant bread, individual pot pies with a flaky crust over rich sauce and chunks of beef tenderloin and vegetables. Vin requested water instead of wine, and managed to eat most of his meal, knowing that D’Amico was watching him for signs of nerves, and determined not to give him any satisfaction.

He was content to let Ezra make small talk with D’Amico, was impressed as always with Standish’s ease – he seemed to know something about everything, and if he didn’t, he winged it effortlessly. D’Amico made no effort to draw him into the conversation, but gave him an occasional heavy-lidded glance that sent shivers down Vin’s spine. He wished D’Amico would quit playing the gracious host and get down to business. Vin set his fork down, tired of pushing the remains of his pot pie around his plate in an attempt to look like he was eating. He drank his water and warned the waiter off when he moved in to refill the glass, wondering if D’Amico noticed his restlessness.

Ezra took a final sip of wine and set his glass aside. “Mr. D’Amico, this meal was excellent, though I admit the ambience is a bit ... intimidating.”

D’Amico smiled slightly, as if amused by Ezra’s take on things, but there was no warmth in his eyes. “I thought it seemed appropriate to our business. What do you think, Mr. Tanner?”

“I think y’ought to tell me what that business is, Mr. D’Amico.”

“A job.”

“Shootin’?”

“Do you have other talents I am unaware of?”

“Maybe.” Vin had to work at unclenching his jaw. “But if it’s shootin’ ya want, then let’s talk about that.”

“Quid pro quo.”

Vin’s mouth quirked. “Ez, you wanna translate that?”

“To paraphrase, ‘This for that,’ or one hand washes the other, if you prefer to think of it that way.”

“I’m listening.” Vin inclined his head towards D’Amico.

“You were a sniper, I believe. An Army Ranger?”

D’Amico knew his background, then. Vin had to concede that. “It says so in my files, so I reckon it’s true.”

“Then you’ve killed men secretly, without warning?” D’Amico licked his lips, like he savored that sort of anonymous death.

Vin swallowed. “I followed orders. Did my job.”

“And have continued doing it with the ATF?”

He forced himself to shrug; like it didn’t matter, like it hadn’t mattered then or now. “It’s what I do.”

“Do you like it?” D’Amico leaned forward.

Vin met those cold, dead eyes. “I don’t git a hard-on from it like some fellers, and I got a right to keep anything else I think to myself,” he said softly. Intuition told him that D’Amico had a lust for death; that awareness made him feel ill. He pushed himself away from the table.

“Sit down,” D’Amico hissed. Ronnie Fazio was suddenly standing in the doorway with a gun in his hand. Vin heard Ezra’s muffled exclamation of surprise, and he sat back down, slowly. “I’ll tell you when you may leave.”

*So it was like that.* Vin shrugged, as if it made no matter to him whether he stayed or went, when in truth, his heart was starting to beat a mile a minute and he felt the walls closing around him. “Ya don’t need a gun, Ronnie. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

D’Amico waved a lazy hand in dismissal, and Fazio withdrew from sight. Vin felt his presence lingering like a chill, and didn’t doubt that he was still watching them. He caught a shadow ghosting through Ezra’s eyes and smiled slightly as he relaxed into the chair. Beneath the table he slid his foot alongside Ezra’s, the only way he could telegraph his intentions without giving anything away to D’Amico.

“Okay, you’ve got my attention. Suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

D’Amico poured another glass of wine and held the bottle poised over Vin’s. “Are you sure you won’t drink with me?”

“Cain’t. That little dust up at the opera took a chunk outta my liver.”

“Ah, if I had known at the time, I would have instructed my uncle’s bodyguards to be more careful in choosing their targets.” Vin felt Ezra’s foot jerk against his. Whatever D’Amico had said had struck a chord with Standish and Vin quickly sorted through all the levels of meaning, and didn’t like what was at the bottom of it.

Betrayal, pure and simple. He wondered if Gianni D’Amico had any idea he’d been nursing a viper at his bosom. And then he felt a deep, surging anger that he had inadvertently been the instrument of death in Troy D’Amico’s hand. When he had time, he’d sit down and count how many double-crosses had been set in motion that night.

He looked at D’Amico, wondering if his loathing showed in his eyes. “Jist tell me what you want me t’do.”

“There’s a man I want you to kill.”

Vin moved his foot against Ezra’s, warning against reaction. “You think I’d just do it ‘cause you asked?”

“Did you question your commanding officers when you were in the Rangers?”

Vin met his eyes steadily. “I figured they had reasons for their orders.”

“And you’ve grown a conscience since then?” D’Amico sneered.

“Maybe I’m just a little less clear on the reasons you want a man dead.”

“This man is a threat to me. I want him removed.”

“Ronnie’s got a gun and seems real willin’ t’use it.” Vin said, feeling reckless, his head a bit light, as if he had drunk wine with his meal.

D’Amico laughed. “You amuse me, Mr. Tanner. Indeed, you do. I had no idea you had such wit.”

Vin leaned forward. “Who and when?” He couldn’t stand this much longer. It was hard to breathe, hard to keep focused. D’Amico was narrowed in on him like a cobra, all cold eyes and feint and thrust as he scented out his prey.

“Not yet, Mr. Tanner. There are arrangements to be made.”

“Haven’t said I’d do it, yet.”

D’Amico looked like Vin had slapped him. Ezra drew in a sharp breath, but didn’t say a word. “You’ll do it,” D’Amico said in an icy whisper. A flick of a finger and Ronnie Fazio stepped back into the room.

Gambling was Ezra’s forte, not Vin’s, and he didn’t like the ugly turn this little scenario had taken. He didn’t like Ronnie Fazio’s twitchy finger, and he didn’t like D’Amico watching Vin like a snake about to strike. He wanted out, and he was willing to lay his cards on the table to do it. Lazily crooking his right leg over his left, partly screened from D’Amico and Fazio’s view, he tapped his foot sharply against Vin’s, indicating he was about to make his move. He felt the return pressure, no hesitation, and knew his shift in position had telegraphed his intent clearly.

It didn’t take much movement to draw his pistol from the ankle holster, or for him to rise so smoothly that Fazio was taken off-guard. Vin cleared his own weapon, and then they were standing shoulder to shoulder, D’Amico and Fazio in their sights.

Ezra smiled, gold tooth gleaming balefully. “I believe our meeting is adjourned. When you are ready to discuss terms reasonably, Mr. D’Amico, we will be willing to do so, without resorting to sordid tactics. Mr. Tanner, shall we withdraw?”

“I’m right with ya, pard. Reckon these fellers know better than to do anything stupid.”

They were out the door, and it seemed ridiculously anticlimactic to climb into a golf cart. A scene from a comic movie, not a thriller, and Ezra would have giggled at the sheer absurdity, if Vin weren’t pale and taut without a hint of laughter in his eyes. Ezra didn’t drive up to the clubhouse, but took the cart right to the parking lot, ignoring the resentful stares of the valets. He truly doubted he’d be back.

“Park it and leave it, “ Vin said tersely. “Let’s get out of here, fast.”

“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Tanner.”

They peeled inelegantly out of the parking lot and hit the freeway back to Denver. As they distanced themselves from D’Amico, some of Vin’s tension began draining away; not so much that he’d take his eye off the side view mirror to watch for a tail. He caught Ezra checking the rearview mirror periodically, but by the time they were in city traffic, they both eased off a bit, and let the whine of the tires fill the silence until they were ready to speak.

“I can’t say that was the most relaxing meal I’ve ever partaken of,” Ezra commented.

Vin didn’t even crack a smile. “There’s a lot goin’ on there, Ezra. You catch what D’Amico said about his uncle Gianni?”

“That night was a set up.”

“Yeah, for us all. Fuck, he used me to kill the old man, and we just didn’t see it coming.”

“Well, neither did Gianni,” Ezra said. “The old man thought that I was the problem; he never looked to see what was lurking behind him. He certainly did not expect it to be his own flesh and blood. Charming family.”

“He ever say anything about his nephew?”

“Anything complimentary?”

“Hell, Ez – anything! Like he didn’t trust him, like he was gonna be his heir, like how he let Ronnie Fazio hang on to him.”

“No. I don’t think he knew about Fazio. And it wasn’t as if he took me into his confidence regarding his future plans for his organization.”

Ezra rubbed his forehead and Vin noticed that his hand was not quite steady. Hell, he was feeling shaky himself. “You gonna be all right?”

“Safer than you are in Purgatorio, I assure you.”

“I’ll jist pick up my jeep then. Go home. Try to make some sense of this.”

“Will you be speaking to Mr. Larabee?”

“I’m gonna try. Ought’ta let him know what almost happened back there. Tell him about Troy settin’ up the old man for a hit. Tell him I obliged.”

“You didn’t *oblige,* Vin. It was self defense – and no one was reading Troy D’Amico’s mind.”

“I know that. I know I was only doin’ my job. But part a’ me jist doesn’t like the idea that Troy was palming off his dirty work. Puts me on the same plane as Ronnie Fazio. Unwilling, sure. But still holding that damn smoking gun.”

“Makes you wonder who on the inside was giving Troy the ammunition,” Ezra said.

“Maybe the same person who’s tryin’ to screw us over, Ezra.”

“I find that thought singularly unsettling, but sadly accurate in the assessment.” Ezra slanted him a look. “I take it you will inform Mr. Larabee of that possibility.”

“Yeah. That will just be the capper on my day,” Vin sighed. He pulled into Ezra’s drive. Vin climbed out of the car and stretched out his back. He ached, and he knew he wasn’t up to full strength even now. He stuck his hands in his pockets, waiting for Ezra to move around to the driver’s side so he could pull the BMW into the garage. “Talk to you later, Ez.”

“You are welcome to join me for a drink to unwind, my friend.”

“Cain’t drink, Ezra. Remember?”

“I was referring to something non-alcoholic.”

Vin laughed. “Well, I jist don’t see how that is gonna help me at all, so I might as well pass.” He lifted his hand. “See ya.”

The jeep was where he had parked it. He did a walk around, checked under the hood and the wheel wells, and decided it was safe to drive. When he was finally in his apartment, secure and safe as he could be in Purgatorio, he stood for a while looking out the window. As he stood there, he started shivering like a leaf; not physically cold, but chilled to the heart of him, to the marrow of his bones. Angry at himself for his weakness, angry that he had been used, angry that someone on the inside had infiltrated the body of Team Seven like a cancer set on destroying them all.

Desperate for warmth, he stripped and turned the shower on high, letting the steam drive off the chill and ease his stiff muscles. When the water began to change from hot to tepid, he turned off the spigot and stepped out into the steamy bathroom. He wiped the fog from the mirror but didn’t bother looking at his face. Wasn’t much there he wanted to see.

He put on jeans and his Avs sweatshirt. Then figuring he wasn’t going to live long enough for a bum liver to do him in, he opened a beer. He was delaying calling Chris with the bad news, but he finally picked up his cell phone. He was about to push the speed dial, when there was a knock on his door.

Retrieving his gun from his shoulder holster where he had tossed it on his bed, he went to the door and looked out of the peephole. Larabee. He sighed, stuck the Sig into the waist of his jeans, and slid the bolts back. He should have known Chris would sense his unease, like a disturbance in tranquil water.

He opened the door. “Come on in.”

“I was waiting for you to call.” The edge of anger rasped in his voice.

Vin stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugged. “Sorry. I needed some time.”

Chris’s eyes lit on the bottle of beer set on the coffee table. “That bad?” A lift of a brow and a wry smile took the bite out of his earlier words and some of the chill out of Vin’s bones. He cocked his head in invitation.

“Yeah. You want one?”

“Sure.” Chris prowled inside, sat on the couch while Vin locked up again and went into the kitchen for another beer. He held out the cold bottle to Chris and sat down, his own beer held lightly in his hands. Chris noticed there was less than half gone, and Tanner didn’t seem to be in a hurry to finish it up. Kind of like a kid who lit up a cigarette to calm the jitters and then discovered that he didn’t really want it after all.

Chris was familiar with Vin’s silences. He would sit quietly until he was ready to speak, when the words were ordered in his mind, and not a moment sooner. Wasn’t exactly what the doctor would have ordered for a man on the verge of developing a bleeding ulcer. Vin didn’t need to know that, and Chris would wait.

Finally, Vin’s head dropped back against the sofa cushions. “It’s a set-up, Chris. The whole damn fucking case is a set-up, and has been from the get-go.”

“What do you mean?” Low and level, but not really surprised.

Vin laughed softly. “Jesus, Chris. D’Amico played us real good. Even got me to off the old man fer him.” He straightened, turning to face Larabee, with one arm laid across the back of the sofa. “Don’t exactly know the trail of information, but we c’n start with somebody inside givin’ Troy the information ‘bout Ezra being an agent. He tells old Gianni, who figures he’ll get Ezra at the opera, and Troy hears that I’m gonna be watchin’ Ezra’s back. Shoot, Chris. He *knows* about me! He knows about the Rangers, and that I’m a sniper. Didn’t take much to put two and two together – I’d be at the opera watchin’ Ez and if it looked like Gianni was gonna make a move on him, then I’d take him out – no doubts, a sure kill, ‘cause he knows I don’t miss. And sure enough, I don’t – and the old man is dead, the old guard is dead, and the whole fucking organization falls into Troy’s hands like an overripe plum.”

Chris listened, not interrupting, and knowing that Vin had put all the pieces together but for the insider. “Am I right?” Vin asked, searching Chris’s face. “Or am I just tired and seein’ ghosts ‘round every corner?”

“If you are, it’s the same ghost that took a shot at me.” Chris scrubbed a weary hand over his face. “Shit.”

“Yeah. You got any leads?”

“A ton of leads, and no proof.”

“Shit.”

Their eyes met, and they both laughed then, rueful and weary. “You got any idea what happens next?” Vin asked.

“Pizza? I’m buyin’.”

“How’s yer stomach?”

“Fucked.” Chris grinned. “But I’ve got pills and I don’t give a damn.” He picked up his beer and they touched the bottle necks together and drank a toast to not giving a damn, if only for an hour.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7*

It had taken nearly an hour on the phone, but Josiah had finally come up with someone who might be able give them some information on Ronnie Fazio. Problem was the snitch was in the federal lock-up in Florence, which required a drive. And that meant Team Seven would be down another man. He sighed, set the receiver back on the cradle. Buck was looking at him expectantly, reading his expression, and probably more hopeful than Josiah felt.

“You got something, didn’t you?”

“Sort of. Remember Raphael Gutierrez?”

Buck thought a moment. “Ace? Sure ... thought he was out on probation?”

“They caught him with a brick of marijuana in his truck. Couldn’t convince the judge that it wasn’t his. Pretty hard to do when you test positive in a big way.”

Buck snorted. “Hope springs eternal in their tiny little minds. So what does Ace have to do with Ronnie Fazio?”

“A friend of a friend of a friend told me that Ace *might* have some information on Fazio.”

“That’s a wish and a prayer, Josiah, and a mighty slim one at that.”

“You and I know it, Brother. Question is, who’s gonna drive down to Florence to find out?”

“Reckon you pull that duty, Josiah. I think I’m pretty tied up here. Don’t know where Chris is, or when he’ll be back.”

“He’s gonna be thrilled that I’m cutting out of here,” Josiah said with a wry grin.

“Hell, just do it. I’ll tell Chris later. You know there ain’t a thing he wouldn’t do for Junior.” Buck picked up the file Josiah had set aside. “This is back-burner stuff.”

Josiah grinned. “I’ll let you know ASAP. Could be a wild goose chase.”

“Could end up with the golden egg.” Buck’s eternal optimism flashed out in his smile. Josiah threw his jacket on and left the squad room.

The drive to Florence was uninspiring – flat for the most part, and not much traffic at mid-day. Josiah usually used the time for meditation, pondering his own flaws. This time, he found himself trying to put together a puzzle with too many missing pieces: Who had informed on Ezra? Why was Vin included in Williams’ vendetta? What part did Ace Gutierrez play in this, if any? Josiah couldn’t help his cynicism. Too many snitches had wormed their way out of a sentence by promising information that was inaccurate, unreliable, or made up of whole cloth.

He got to the prison in the late afternoon, and was shown to the conference room where low-security inmates met with their attorneys. It seemed Ace had found himself a pretty good place in the prison hierarchy. Josiah sat down on a hard chair, and waited for them to bring Gutierrez from his cell. Took about fifteen minutes, and then the door opened, and a guard came in with a short, well-muscled man in his early thirties. His dark hair was cut close, and he looked like he spent a lot of time outdoors. The cuffs of his denim shirt were rolled up over muscular forearms that were heavily tattooed with reptilian figures that looked like snakes, or maybe dragons. He waited for the guard to leave, and then asked Josiah for a cigarette.

“Sorry, don’t smoke.”

“It figures.” Gutierrez grinned, showing white teeth. “So, what’s the deal here?”

“Right now, there is no deal. “

“I don’t talk without a deal, man.”

“Really?” Josiah leaned forward. “And I don’t deal without talk, so we seem to be at a stand-off. Maybe we should just play a little game here and see if we come up with something in common. You know word associations?”

Gutierrez laughed. “You some kinda shrink?”

“Some kind.”

“Fed?”

“ATF.”

Gutierrez’s eyes widened. “Man, I don’t know nothin’ about that shit. Drugs, yeah. But no guns and bombs. Isn’t that what you guys do?”

“Sometimes. I’m not here to talk about your transgressions, Ace – may I call you that?”

“Sure, man. It works.”

“Okay.” Josiah paused before he spoke. “Ronnie Fazio.”

“He’s a prick.”

Josiah laughed. “I agree with you there. Sounds like you know him pretty well.”

“Ronnie’s been around. Used to deal dope, but he said he didn’t like the ‘clientele,’ Those’re his words not mine.”

“Gianni D’Amico.”

Gutierrez’s eyes flickered. “Big time stuff. Him, I unnerstand you going after.”

“He’s dead.”

“No shit!” Gutierrez seemed surprised. “Who offed the old man?”

“How do you know he didn’t die of a heart attack?”

“That old hombre? He’s too mean.” Gutierrez laid his hands on the table. “You sure you ain’t got a smoke?”

Josiah stood up, knew Gutierrez’s eyes were following as he unfolded his big body. He knocked on the door, and when the guard came, he asked for a pack of cigarettes. The guard looked disgusted, but returned a few minutes later with a pack and a book of matches. “Keep the matches,” he said.

Josiah sat down, pushed the cigarettes over to Gutierrez and lit one for him. Ace drew in deeply, breathed out. “Fuckin’ cancer sticks, but they’re the only thing keepin’ me sane in this place.” He drew in some more smoke, then relaxed back in his chair. “So D’Amico is dead. Too bad.”

“Why?”

“Man – I don’t expect you t’unnerstand this, but old man D’Amico, he was like, you know, a legend. Shit.” He shook his head sadly. “What happens to the business?”

“Troy D’Amico.”

“Aw, shit ... you mean it?”

“Him and Ronnie Fazio.”

Gutierrez drew in smoke. “Poison, man. Jes’ poison.” He laughed softly. “Hope you got a lot of guys out there. It’s gonna be a fucking war.” He fixed Josiah with a dark study. “You ain’t tole me why you’re here.”

“How does Ronnie Fazio get in good with Troy D’Amico if he’s such a prick?”

Gutierrez shrugged. “He got somethin’ Troy wants?”

“You asking or telling?”

Another shrug. “Ronnie’s a backstabbing shit.” He blew out a thick stream of smoke, stubbed out the butt on the scarred tabletop, picked up another cigarette and waited for Josiah to strike a match. “He was snitchin’ on one hand, informin’ on the other.”

“Pretty hard to prove,” Josiah suggested. He was trying not to look eager, trying not to sound like Gutierrez had come up with something important, though he was pretty sure he had hit on information that could lead them to answers.

“Man, I ain’t gotta prove nuthin’.”

“Who was he snitching for?”

Gutierrez’s eyes narrowed. “You want that, we gotta do more than play games.”

*Damn*. “You know I don’t have that authority, Ace.”

“Then maybe I wanna talk to somebody who does.”

Josiah made a gamble that was more in line with Ezra than with his own convictions. “I could suggest some sort of deal to Assistant Director Orrin Travis – no promises, mind – but something to be considered when your time comes for parole again. You stay clean, Ace and anything is possible.” *God help me,* he prayed silently.

Gutierrez laughed, and Josiah’s heart sank. “Travis don’t know when his own house is burnin’ down, amigo.”

Josiah didn’t even try to control his reflexes. His big hand closed hard over Gutierrez’s wrist, pinioning it to the table, his great strength making the other man’s struggles useless as a pinned moth. “You tell me what that means, *amigo,”* he growled or all deals are off.”

Gutierrez looked like he was about to shout for the guard. He twisted futilely against Josiah’s grip. “Shit, man. Lemme go.”

“I’m done dealing, son. You explain what you meant about the house burnin’ down or you won’t be walking free anytime soon. I can do it. And I will.”

Gutierrez licked his lips, looked into Josiah’s heavy-jawed, hard face and harder eyes and relented. Josiah knew the instant he won as the man sank down into the chair, defeated. “Fazio used to go to Angel’s – you know, man – Angel Ramirez’s joint. Said he met a man there – said he had an insider lookin’ out for D’Amico’s interests, and that’s why the old man’d never been caught running his guns.”

“I want a name,” Josiah said, soft and serious.

A scrawl of sweat gathered and trickled down Gutierrez’s cheek, though the room wasn’t hot. “Man, I tell you that and my life ain’t worth shit.”

“How much is it worth now?” Josiah asked.

Gutierrez’s dark eyes were haunted. “I don’t got a name – not one you’d know. Fazio said his man was called Mohawk.”

“Mohawk?” Didn’t mean a thing to Josiah. “You sure about that?”

“I’d lie about a lotta things, amigo, but not that.”

Josiah wasn’t sure he believed that. He looked deeply into Gutierrez’s eyes and saw fear there; fear of him, or of what would happen if the shadowy Mohawk discovered he had been betrayed. If this Mohawk were still involved in the ATF, then nothing of this conversation could leak out, and Josiah was very glad that he and Buck were the only ones who knew he had made the drive to Florence. Josiah called for the guard, and stood, looking down at Gutierrez. “I’ll request a watch on you, Ace. If you want it.”

Gutierrez laughed harshly. “I don’t trust no one here. Don’t need your protection, don’t want it.”

Josiah nodded. “Might be better that way. I’ll do what I can for you.”

“Sure you will.” The guard came in and herded Gutierrez out of the room. He paused in the door, looked back over his shoulder. “So, who killed D’Amico?”

“His nephew, Troy.”

Gutierrez paled, breath hissing in sharply, and for a moment, Josiah thought he had more to say. Then the guard prodded Gutierrez along, in a hurry to get him out of the room, like he was afraid Josiah would spirit him away from incarceration.

Josiah picked up the matches and stuck them in his pocket. He collected his gun and personal effects from the officer at the entrance to the prison and went out into the free air outside. He drew a deep, cleansing breath and offered a prayer for forgiveness. He didn’t like what he had done to Gutierrez, and was more than half-afraid that he had set the man up to be murdered. D’Amico’s shadow had a long, dark reach.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris couldn’t say that the pizza did his stomach one bit of good, but evidently it was just what the doctor ordered for Vin. There was some color in his face, the lines of stress were fading, and his slim body wasn’t drawn up into a tight knot of misery, but curved into an easy slouch against the high arm of the sofa. There was a semblance of normalcy to the scene; just the two of them, sharing a meal and a beer, watching mindless TV. They didn’t talk much, and Chris figured that was for the best seeing as the topic of conversation would inevitably turn to work. And that was the last thing either of them needed.

He was about to settle himself into a more comfortable position when his cell phone rang. He looked at the number. “Josiah,” he said. Then answered. “Yeah?”

“Chris, don’t know if Buck told you, but I got a lead on Ronnie Fazio from Ace Gutierrez down in Florence.”

“What lead?”

“Seems like Ronnie liked to hang around in a bar called Angel’s – Angel Ramirez’s place – says he met up with someone called Mohawk. Ace is pretty damn sure that Mohawk was inside the Bureau.”

“Shit.” Chris looked at Vin, who was watching him expectantly.

“You want me to go down there and check it out?” Josiah asked.

“No. I’ll handle it. You and Buck need to keep an eye on things at the office.”

“We are beset by enemies, Mr. Larabee,” Josiah’s voice held apprehension, a hint of amusement, a warning of caution.

“We are, indeed, Agent Sanchez.” Chris clipped the phone back on his belt. He sat up, turned to Vin with a raised brow and a nasty curl to his mouth. “You feel like slumming, Vin?”

“Maybe.” Vin’s eyes were bright with interest. “Where?”

“You know Angel’s?”

Vin snorted. “Y’cain’t live in Purgatorio and not know that place. Had a bad rep fer a while, seems to have settled a bit,” he said. “What’re we lookin’ for?”

“Not a what, a who. Josiah got a lead on Fazio from a snitch doin’ time in Florence. He said that Ronnie had several meetings with an informant – possibly a federal agent.”

“Shit.” Vin echoed Chris’s sentiments.

“Makes you kinda sick, doesn’t it?”

Vin gave him a thoughtful look. “Makes a sick sort of sense, though, with all the stuff that’s been goin’ wrong. We knew there had to be a leak.” He shook his head. “Though leak jist don’t seem to say it.”

“The name Mohawk mean anything to you?”

Vin frowned. “Nope. Might try runnin’ it past JD, though.” He pushed himself upright with an effort and eyed Chris’s attire. “Gotta get you set for slummin’ around here. That Brooks Brothers jacket a’ yours is a dead giveaway.” He disappeared into his bedroom and emerged a few minutes later with a pair of worn jeans, a black T-shirt, and one of his flannel shirts over his arm. He dumped them on the couch next to Chris. “Got a bandanna there, too. Tie it around that blond head.”

Chris grinned at the instinctive planning that had gone into the camouflage. “You’ve been hanging around Ezra too much, Tanner.”

Vin laughed. “Hell, Ez wouldn’t be caught dead wearin’ a do-rag! Leaves that kind of work to me.” A bright blue eye glittered in a wink. “Be with ya in a few.”

Chris changed quickly into the clothes Vin had given him. He made a face at the bandanna, but tied it around his head. Still waiting for Vin, he called JD and put him on the trail of the elusive Mohawk. He was strapping on his holster when Vin returned.

“You ready?”

Chris looked Vin over. He was wearing oil-stained jeans and a long-sleeved grey Henley, covered by a ragged sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped out. His hair was slicked back, tied in a ponytail, and covered with a bandanna. Disreputable, even for him. “Let’s ride,” he said, sounding more grim than excited, even though that was there, too, running like an undercurrent in his blood. He watched as Vin checked his ankle holster. His spare Sig – the one the Bureau didn’t need to know about – was secured, then he straightened and grinned at Chris.

“Vamanos.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Angel’s. The battered sign looked like it had been shot more than once; pock-marked with bullet holes and bleeding rust from the wounds. The neon tubing barely flickered with life, and the uncertain crimson light stained the crumbling brick walls the color of dried blood. The bar was a low, one-story structure tucked between two taller, now abandoned buildings, though Chris thought he saw figures looking out of the broken windows of the building on the right. It was the sort of place the homeless used for shelter; too dilapidated for regular inhabitants, but still structurally sound. *Great place for an ambush*, he thought, and had to keep himself from touching the gun at his side.

Vin was on alert, slim body tensed and balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, poised for action. He was seeing the same things Chris saw and didn’t like them any better. “Ready to move in?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be.” The vibration of music playing too loud thudded through his chest and seemed to envelope his entire body. “Jesus, how’d Fazio even understand what his contact was saying in this racket?”

Vin gave him a crooked grin, and pushed the door open. It was so dimly lit that Chris was temporarily disoriented. Then he understood. The loud music, the darkness, the uncertainty he felt; they were all meant to disorient *intruders* into this place. People like him. Like Vin. They might look like they belonged, but they were the enemy. They couldn’t forget that. Not for a heartbeat.

Vin brushed past him, taking point. He strolled towards the bar, and Chris was pretty sure every eye in the place was on him, taking his measure. Chris tried not to be too obvious in his scrutiny. Just scoped the place out casually. His gaze drifted past a pool table with a scarred slate surface and a light that didn’t illuminate much but a small portion of the action. Scattered tables and broken chairs crowded against the walls. The rest of the bar was lit by grimy recessed spots and the dim red glow of an exit sign. Legal. Nice to see that somebody paid attention to the finer points of the building code. Kept the inspectors at bay and trouble off the doorstep. Made it easy to ignore the other illegal activities the bar was a cover for.

The patrons looked as rough and scarred as their surroundings. Not too many here at this time of day. The sort of patrons Angel’s attracted didn’t come out until well after dark. Two leather-clad, bearded men – bikers, maybe – occupied one table. A skinny, hungry-looking hooker at the table closest to the bar gave Chris the eye, then Vin. Hopeful for a moment, then disgusted when the interest wasn’t returned. A couple kids, hanging on to legal by their fingernails, were playing pool and drinking beers. They were all enveloped in a blue miasma of smoke that made Chris’s breath catch in his throat and his eyes sting.

Vin walked among them like he belonged there; that damned easy carriage of his like the lethal prowl of a panther. No one spoke to him, but they watched as he and Chris made a slow progress towards the bar, weaving around empty tables and consciously avoiding eye contact.

Vin leaned forward on the worn and faded wood. The bartender was a tall, thin Hispanic male, hair greased back from a hard, acne-scarred face. “What d’ya want?” he asked.

“Corona.” Vin glanced at Chris. “Two.”

Two bottles were set on the bar, two grudging slivers of lime on a small plate set between the bottles. “Pay now. I don’t run tabs.” The bartender stood with his arms folded across his chest, waiting.

“You Angel Ramirez?” Vin asked. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and set it on the bar.

“No.”

“He here?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Maybe a friend. Maybe somebody he don’t wanna tangle with. ‘S up to him to find out. Tell him I ain’t out t’cause him no trouble. Jist got a couple of questions that need answerin’.” Vin took a suck of lime and a swig of the Corona like he didn’t give a damn if Ramirez decided to come out or not. His fingers rested lightly on the twenty dollar bill.

The bartender licked his lips, and slid his palm towards the money. “I’ll tell him. But he ain’t too sociable.” The man’s lip curled in what might have been a smile, if his eyes hadn’t looked so hard and hunted. Vin lifted his fingers from the bill. The bartender stuck the twenty in his pocket and disappeared into a doorway leading to the back of the bar. Chris leaned close, as much to give physical support to Vin as to hear him.

“Cost you a pretty penny if he decides not to talk.”

Vin gave him a lopsided grin. “Hell, jist put it on my expense account at the end of the month.” Then as he remembered his suspension, he shrugged. “Maybe y’oughtta put it on yours.” He drank more beer, and then set the bottle down as the bartender came from the back room.

“Come with me.”

Vin straightened and walked around the end of the bar. He felt Chris at his back, a solid shadow of support. It was the only thing that kept him moving forward as a wave of premonition struck him like a hand flat against his chest. *What the hell is this?* he wondered, and hoped Chris had his weapon cleared in case things got hot and heavy.

They went down a narrow hallway lit by two bare bulbs, and stopped before a dark wood door. The bartender knocked, then opened it. “Angel, they’re here.”

Vin walked past the man and went into the room. The walls were peeling plaster, the desk nothing more than a metal cast-off from some less fortunate business; grey and dented, chipped paint. The man sitting behind it had the wide shoulders of a boxer, receding black hair, a broad face with thin, cruel lips. A scar curved from above his brow to below his left eye. Looked like somebody had taken a punch at him with the seamed edge of a boxing glove. Must’ve bled like a sonofabitch, Vin thought.

Angel Ramirez studied them with narrowed, black eyes. After a moment he leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think you are a friend of mine, Mr. ... ?”

Vin ignored the leading ending of Ramirez’s statement. “Somebody told me we got a mutual friend. Ronnie Fazio.”

Ramirez raised a brow. “Ronnie’s no friend of mine. Seems like somebody told you wrong.”

“Seems like ya know him well enough t’call him Ronnie.” A wicked smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “I’s told he used ta hang here.”

“*Somebody* should keep their mouth shut.” There was a cold hint of wry humor in Ramirez’s voice.

Hearing it, Vin laughed softly. “Shit. They was jist tryin’ t’work a deal same as anybody else. Same as you and same as me.”

Ramirez leaned forward over the desk, suddenly menacing. “What deal are you working, senor?” The humor died quickly, replaced with a spill of malignant suspicion. Vin didn’t reply immediately, as if he knew Chris had something he wanted to say.

Chris wasn’t about the lose the opening Vin had found. He had to find a way to force the door wider, maybe get a few answers. He knew Ramirez’s type; knew that this bar was maybe more than a livelihood. He’d seen enough to know that Ramirez was careful to keep things legal. At least on the surface. The place was basically clean, hard-used, but not in disrepair. Kind of like Ramirez. Chris flicked a glance at Vin. *Let me take it from here,* it said, and Vin’s tension let back a little to allow Chris to step in.

He took out his wallet, opened it to his badge. “Special Agent Chris Larabee. ATF. You talk to us and maybe I’ll overlook some violations going on here.”

The bullet hit home. Ramirez’s face stilled, then darkened. “There are no violations here. I run a clean place.”

“Oh, I’m *sure* I could find some that would shut you down before you could say ‘por favor,’ so let’s not make this difficult.” He leaned forward on the desk, braced inches away from Ramirez. “Answer our questions and we’re outta here.”

Ramirez faltered slightly beneath that intense glare. He looked away from Chris, back to Vin. “Fazio used to come here to collect for Gianni D’Amico, back when he was a messenger boy.” He gave Chris a defensive look. “I don’t pay D’Amico no more. Told him I got my own protection.”

“When?”

Ramirez shrugged. “Five, maybe six months ago. Fazio’d still come in to buy a drink, hang out. Nothin’ illegal there, right? And I figured if he’s here, D’Amico ain’t about to torch the place. So I left him alone. Then he started meeting this guy. They’d get a couple of beers, talk. Then leave separately.”

“What did this other man look like?” Chris asked.

“Like you.”

“What?” Chris was clearly startled.

Ramirez laughed beneath his breath. “Not *like* you, but the same look. Too tight – too clean. Not the type to pick this place for a drink and a game of pool.”

Vin laughed too, a soft chuff from where he sat. “Anything else? Eye color, hair color?”

Ramirez shrugged. “Maybe taller than average. Not young. He had tinted glasses, hard to see his eyes. Usually wore a plain, dark cap. Dark jacket. Real quiet. ”

Chris stepped back a bit. “He ever leave a name?”

“No. He’d come in, sit at that corner table, wait for Ronnie.”

“Did he order anything to drink?” Vin asked.

“Yeah. Different for around here. Scotch.”

“Did Ronnie ever mention his name?”

Ramirez frowned. “Not his name. Not to me.”

“You ever hear Ronnie call him ‘Mohawk’?”

“Like the Indians? No.”

But Vin thought he saw a flicker of something in Ramirez’s eyes. He moved then, so quickly that Ramirez had no chance to counter or reach for a weapon before Vin’s hand clamped over his wrist. “You wanna rethink that answer, amigo?”

Ramirez’s dark face paled, even though his expression remained impassive. He licked his lips, wouldn’t look at Vin, but kept his eyes on Chris as he spoke. “I never heard Fazio use that name, but Ramon – the bartender – called him that once.”

Vin’s mouth hardened. “Gracias.” He released Ramirez’s wrist. “When was the last time they were here?”

“Two, maybe three days ago.”

Chris’s breath hissed through his teeth. He hadn’t expected it to be that recently. Two days ago someone had taken a shot at him. Two days ago Vin had met Troy D’Amico at the Sportsmen’s club, and Fazio hadn’t been in sight on the outdoor range. Had he been here, meeting with Mohawk? Probability and coincidence were too tightly meshed for Chris’s comfort. He looked hard at Ramirez. “Anything else you want to tell us?”

Ramirez shook his head. “Nothing more to tell.”

Vin stepped away from the desk. He looked at Chris, apparently satisfied with the answers. “Let’s get outta here.”

Chris nodded. He would have asked Ramirez to keep in touch if Fazio or *Mohawk* showed up again but he figured they had done enough damage already. Ramirez wasn’t on their side in any way, shape, or form. If they pushed this, he never would be. Better to walk away. He gave Ramirez one last look and left the office, Vin close behind him, and even though he couldn’t see Tanner, he knew that his right hand was poised and ready to draw at the slightest hint of a threat.

Then they were out the front door and onto the street. It was a shock to see that the sun hadn’t set yet, that the streets were active; rush hour even in this part of the city. They walked quickly back to Vin’s jeep. When they were settled and driving, Chris called JD.

“Kid, you have anything on Mohawk yet?”

JD gave a frustrated sigh. “Everything from high school football teams to towns to campgrounds.”

“You look in Williams’s personnel file?”

“It’s not where he went to school, spent vacations, lived. No geographical connections.”

“Bring your gear to the ranch. Now. Tell the others. Vin and I will meet you there. And ask Buck what Williams drinks. Yes, you heard right.” He cleared the line, hit Ezra’s speed dial. “Ezra, Chris. Get out to the ranch. Nah, we’re all right. Just need to caucus.” Exasperation crept into his tone. “Cancel it!” A moment of what had to be colorful invective from the undercover agent before Chris responded. “Well, hell. Maybe I just like my own whiskey better. Be there.”

Vin was laughing when Chris hung up. “I figure Ezra ain’t too happy about drivin’ out to your place.”

“He had scheduled a massage,” Chris snorted.

“Ya should’a asked him to bring the feller along. Cain’t say the idea don’t sound good.” Vin rotated his neck. “Must be gettin’ old as you, Larabee.”

“You all right?” Chris turned towards him. “Truth.”

“Yeah. Been a long day, is all.”

“We’ve got time to stop at your place, pick up the Ram. I’ll drive.”

“Thanks.”

That Tanner didn’t argue was a worry in itself. Chris studied him. He was stubborn enough to keep going when most men would have crashed hours ago, but that couldn’t stop him from looking fragile. The color that had been in his face earlier had faded, the shadows under his eyes had darkened like bruises, and the way his fingers were holding onto the steering wheel and clutch told Chris that he was fighting pain, fatigue, or some combination of both. Damn stubborn Texan wouldn’t admit it, though.

“Might wanta stop and change back inta yer own clothes, ‘les ya plan on givin’ Ezra more fuel fer that fire ya lit under him,” Vin laughed. “You in that do-rag, an’ all.”

“Good thing you’re already on suspension, Tanner,” Chris growled amiably, his worry slightly lessened by Vin’s wry humor. He tugged the bandanna from his head, wincing as the knot pulled at his hair. He rubbed at his forehead, easing the tight feeling that lingered from the pressure of the bandanna. He brushed his fingers through his hair. Caught Vin grinning at him and grinned back. “What?” he asked.

“Musta felt good being out from behind that desk.”

“Yeah, it did. Makes me feel like I’ve got some control over things, that I’m not just sitting around waiting while things happen all around me. To me. Christ, I hate being helpless.”

Vin pulled the Jeep into his parking slot and turned the ignition off. He didn’t open the door immediately, just turned in his seat and looked at Chris. “I wanna thank you.”

“For what?”

“Fer not makin’ me sit this out. I’d be goin’ crazy if ya did.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Vin’s blue eyes darkened. “I know ya, Chris. But I also know how the brass thinks, an’ I reckon Orrin wouldn’t be too happy with what me and Ezra ‘re doing. Or what you’re lettin’ us do. It could cost ya. And it shouldn’t.”

“It couldn’t cost me more than losing you and Ezra, no matter how you look at it. If we can’t figure this out, I’ll leave the bureau rather than stay without you.”

Vin swallowed. He knew what the job meant to Chris, what he had invested in it; time and emotions that had cost him dearly in so many ways. That pledge of faith was as solid as the strength of the man behind it, and Vin was always a little humbled that somebody like Chris called him friend and partner. He figured they all were. That’s why they were fighting back. That’s why they had to win.

 

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin stood looking out the window as he waited for Chris to change out of his borrowed clothes. Late afternoon, the city shimmering in a haze of smog, noisy. He wasn’t sure it was such a good idea for him to hang around with Chris when they didn’t know if they were being watched or monitored. Not that Chris gave a rat’s ass who knew he was supporting his two disgraced agents. Chris had already made that abundantly clear. And Lord, he was tired, too tired to argue with Chris, too tired to insist that Chris back off on this. Truth was, he was afraid that if Chris backed off, he’d fall flat, like a tree whose roots had given out.

Roots. When the hell had he had roots? Not in this lifetime. Not until he had met Chris Larabee and found the missing half of his soul. Now he had a home, a family. Roots. And he suddenly, fiercely, didn’t want to lose them.

He heard the ring of Chris’s boot heels on the hardwood floor of the hall, and he turned to see Larabee buttoning the cuffs on his shirt, his tie threaded under the collar, but hanging loose.

Chris glanced up. “You ready?”

“I ain’t so sure y’oughtta be seen with me.”

A blond brow shot up. “You afraid I’ll damage your reputation?”

Vin blushed and laughed. “Yeah. That’s it.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “You know what I mean, Larabee.”

“What’re they gonna do? Kill me? Got news for you, partner. They’ve already tried that and haven’t scared me off. Kick me off the job? Hell, I told you I’d give it up before I left you and Ezra to hang. So pack a bag and let’s hit the road. We’re running late.”

“Pack?”

“I’m not driving back here tonight. And trust me, once Nate takes a look at you, neither are you.”

Vin nodded once, not arguing. He threw some clothes into a gym bag and in a few minutes, he and Chris were on their way.

He stayed alert for the drive out of the city, his eyes flicking to the side view mirror, his fingers drumming nervously on his thigh. Chris noticed, didn’t say much, but concentrated on the rush hour traffic clogging the streets. He let Vin worry about being tailed, and could tell when the Texan had decided that they were out of danger by the decreasing tension in his body. By the time they were on the open road, Vin was on the verge of dozing off.

Chris had put a quiet jazz CD into the player, knowing the music would send Vin to sleep. He gave Chris an amused looked from beneath lowered lids. He knew what Chris was doing. He settled his head into the angle of the seat back and window and closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be a long nap, but he’d take what he could get.

The tires whined in an odd sort of cadence with the music from the speakers, and as he relaxed, the aches in his head and body eased back a bit. He hadn’t realized how constant they had been until they started to fade. It wasn’t much farther to the ranch and Chris’s presence was as warm and comforting as Nettie’s quilt. He quit arguing with himself and drifted to sleep.

He woke when Chris pulled onto the gravel drive, the crunch of stones under the tires breaking his subconscious awareness of the music. He opened his eyes, stretched out the kinks in his back and shoulders. The long, sprawling house looked peaceful, quiet. None of the others had arrived yet, and when Chris cut the engine on the Ram, Vin opened the door, hefted his bag, and waited for Larabee to unlock the front door and disarm the security system. He took his bag to the back bedroom he slept in when he stayed over, and then after Chris had changed from city clothes to jeans and a work shirt, they took a walk down to the stables.

Still not saying much, they did the evening chores; mucking out Pony and Peso’s stalls, making sure they had food and water. Both geldings were getting frisky, begging for more exercise than they had been getting in the pasture the last few days. Vin stroked Peso’s velvety nose, chuckling at the wounded looks he was getting when Peso realized that there weren’t more treats forthcoming from Vin’s pockets. Vin laughed softly. “Greedy ol’ mule, ain’tcha? Maybe t’morrow,” he promised. “Git some a’ those jitters worked out. Hmmm? I know how ya feel, partner.”

When Chris finished with the better mannered Pony, he paused and watched Vin and Peso, amazed as always by the way quiet sharpshooter and the ornery gelding had bonded. He had brought Peso at an auction, taken by the animal’s conformation and spirits, and unfazed by the display of ill-temper that had put off most other buyers. Then they had embarked on a months-long battle of wills: two stubborn creatures butting heads at every turn. He had just about resigned himself to owning a horse he couldn’t ride, was on the verge of selling him, when he had introduced Tanner to the intractable gelding. He didn’t know if it had been a matter of like speaking to like or opposites attracting, but the two had become inseparable. He heard the growl of a familiar truck engine and a few moments later, Buck’s paces as he approached the barn.

“Kinda reminds me of somebody I know.” Buck’s voice was low and amused. He stood behind Chris, watching Tanner with Peso.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Buck grinned. “You figure it out.”

“JD setting things up?”

“Brought along all his wonderful toys.”

“Good. I have a feeling we’re gonna need them.” His eyes rested for a moment on Vin before he spoke. “C’mon, cowboy. Time to stop playing with Peso and get to work.”

Vin gave Peso a final, regretful pat on his glossy neck. “Be back later with something for ya,” he said softly. He looked up, saw Buck. “Hey, Bucklin.”

“Hey, Junior. You ready to say goodnight to that critter and come eat some of Inez’s finest chile rellenos?”

“Why didn’t ya say somethin’ earlier?” Vin tossed a last forkful of hay into Peso’s box. He came forward, brushing bits of hay from his jeans and shirt sleeves. “I’m ready.” The three men started up to the house together, but Chris eventually dropped back a few paces, waiting for Buck to do the same.

“JD find anything?” he asked.

“Not as of when we left the office. He was downloading some things, though. Might have found something since then.”

“Good.” Chris paused for a moment on the porch, his green eyes narrowed against the setting sun as he looked out over his land. But his mind wasn’t really on the land, and Buck knew it.

“You’re worried about Junior,” Buck said, no question there.

Chris gave him a measuring look and a one-sided smile. “Hell, yes! And about Ezra, and about the rest of the team – even about you.”

“Me? I’m jist a lazy ol’ hound dawg lyin’ around waitin’ fer a bone and a pat on the head.” His eyes danced. “Least that’s what Williams seems ta think.”

“He’s sharper than you realize, Buck,” Chris warned.

“Yeah, but I’m sharper than *he* realizes, too. Don’t forget it, Chris.”

“I’m not likely to, partner.”

“But you’ll still worry.”

Chris nodded silently. Buck set a hand on his shoulder and frowned at the raw feel of bones too close to skin. “Hell, Larabee. You’re gettin’ as scrawny as Junior.”

Uncomfortable with Buck’s concern, Chris shrugged off the touch. “I’m fine. Need some food and some sleep. And I ain’t gettin’ either of that standing out here on the porch.”

JD was setting up his laptop and a mess of communication equipment in the den. They left him to it and went into the kitchen where Vin was rooting through the shopping bag of food Buck had picked up from Inez. Chris thought he hadn’t looked this happy and relaxed in weeks, and he silently thanked Buck for thinking of bringing the food. God, he needed this. They all needed this. To be together, to be a team. He’d never liked fracturing them into undercover, field, and office, even though that was what the job demanded at times.

Josiah, Nathan, and Ezra showed up within half an hour. They settled around the kitchen table with cartons of Inez’s food, beer, sodas, wine. By tacit agreement, they didn’t talk shop, didn’t mention Williams, D’Amico, Fazio. Chris stayed away from the more inflammatory dishes and along with Vin, drank ginger ale. He didn’t miss the alcohol. He was lightheaded from the release of tension alone. He knew the undercurrent of anxiety was only suppressed, not banished. The troubles were still waiting outside, but they did not cross the threshold into these walls, this room.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Troy D’Amico stood at the window overlooking the city. If you could have drawn a straight line from his office to Vin Tanner’s apartment, they would have been nearly opposite each other. Worlds apart, but not as the crow flies.

D’Amico’s intercom beeped unobtrusively and he returned to his desk. “Yes?”

His secretary answered. “Ronnie Fazio would like to see you.”

“Do I have a choice?” D’Amico sighed. “All right, Margaret. Let him in.” He appreciated that she had the guts to keep Ronnie at bay long enough to warn him. She wasn’t as decorative as Troy would have liked, but she had been his uncle’s secretary, and knew secrets that made keeping her loyal, imperative. He wondered if Gianni had been fucking her on the side – she didn’t seem heartbroken enough over the old man’s death to have been a lover – but the will had left her a substantial bequest. Maybe another year of service and she could be persuaded to leave, when she was of no more use to Troy.

All those thoughts passed in the blink of an eye and when Fazio entered, Troy was ready for him. “What is it?”

“Larabee isn’t backing down.”

Troy lifted a brow. “Did you expect him to play dead just because somebody took a shot at him? Pity they missed, but it was a bad plan.” He seemed to examine his manicured nails. “I shouldn’t have listened to you, Ronnie.”

Fazio leaned forward on the desk. “The plan wasn’t to kill Larabee. I got his attention – made him look away from the real target.” He gave D’Amico an ugly smile. “I have something for you, Troy.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “That schedule you’ve been so hot for.” He straightened. “Pick your time, your place. But I wouldn’t tell Tanner a thing, or he’ll find some way to get out of it.”

D’Amico laughed. Low and cold, it sent a chill down Fazio’s back. “It’s time to start reeling him in, then. He won’t fight the line. Not with the bait I’m using on the hook.”

“What?”

“Not what. Who. It’s time I met your man inside. We’re going to need him in on this for it to work.”

“I’ll need a few days.”

D’Amico looked at the paper on his desk. “The fifteenth. At the dedication. That will give you three days.”

Fazio grinned. “It’s done.”

After he left the office, Troy D’Amico sat back in his chair, his hands linked behind his head. He was pleased, very pleased, with his plan.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris turned on the lamps in the den, pulled out a bottle of whisky and some glasses, and set them out on the wet bar in the corner of the big room. If the night had been colder he would have lit a fire, but the warmth of the day still lingered in the room and the extra heat wasn’t needed. He pulled the drapes shut, an action that a few days ago would have seemed an unnecessary precaution. He hadn’t stayed alive this long without listening to his instincts. The one time he had ignored them had been fatal, and that void ached whenever he allowed the thought to cross his mind. If he had learned to deal with ‘what ifs’, it was only because of the men at his side and he wasn’t about to risk losing them to a stupid oversight.

They were all settled in: Ezra, JD, and Buck on the couch, Nathan and Josiah in the armchairs, Vin in the rocking chair he preferred. He had pulled it close to the coffee table to get a good view of the computer screen. Chris hitched a hip on the arm of the couch and waited for JD to power up his laptop.

“Anything new?” he asked.

JD looked up from his keyboard. “Sorry, Chris. I couldn’t find anything to link Williams to Mohawk. I put Jimmy on the case to see if he couldn’t dig deeper. I was worried that somebody would be able to follow my e-trail through the agency computers. I did what I could with the databases that wouldn’t arouse any suspicions, but those all came up blank.”

“It might not be our friend, Ed Williams,” Ezra drawled. “Perhaps that is why you couldn’t find any traces of the elusive Mohawk.”

“I thought of that. But I didn’t want it to look like I had all his team under watch, so I let it go. You know that search I did about that gun licensing scandal? Well, I e-mailed the reporter who wrote about the case.” There was a tremulous hint of excitement in his voice. “You know how it was blamed on a computer foul-up?”

“Lord, tell me it wasn’t,” Buck said.

“It wasn’t,” JD said triumphantly. “That was the official story. The reporter, Tom Kelly, told me he was sure there was more involved than a computer snafu. He claims he had documentary evidence that he presented to his editor, but that the evidence ‘disappeared,’ and his story was discredited. They said he was –”

“Was what?” Chris asked.

“Well, you know, making it up to cause trouble for the ATF.”

“Why?” Buck asked, puzzled.

JD gave him a disgusted look. “Geez, Buck, it was right after the formal report on Waco.”

“Oh ...” Buck sighed, enlightened. Mention Waco to an ATF agent and you were likely to end up eating his fist. “Is this Kelly a Branch Davidian or something?”

“I guess he’d written some pretty harsh columns about use of excessive force.”

“Shit, maybe he was making it all up,” Vin said. “Wouldn’t be the first time a reporter stretched the truth for a story.”

JD shook his head. “I don’t think so. He seemed real upset when he told me about his evidence being hushed up. It would have been better for him to have some live ammunition, not just blanks. Besides, what he told me, well, it sounded pretty plausible.”

“Tell us, son,” Josiah encouraged. “Us old-timers might have a line on whether or not he was feeding you a line.”

JD took a breath. “He said that there were false permits issued to several gun dealers who were selling on the side. And not only guns, but possibly other munitions. He told me the names of the dealers, and at least three of them had ties to some militia groups.”

“Had?” Chris’s brow slanted.

“And still might have, according to Kelly. Their permits were never revoked,” he said significantly.

“Lack of evidence, or lack of interest?” Josiah queried.

“I thought the day of the wild-eyed survivalists had drawn to a close with the capture of the Unabomber,” Ezra commented. “Swallowed up by the dot-com revolution.”

Vin slouched lower in the rocking chair with a sigh. “Yeah, well if ya ain’t noticed, Ez, them dotcom-ers have gone flat. When the economy dives south, folks start lookin’ fer scapegoats. And guess who’s number one on their hit list? The US government. Ya git a bunch of discontented fellers t’gether, add a few guns, and lookee here, ya got a militia. Don’t help if ya got gun dealers willin’ to bend the regulations t’suit their customers.”

“Neither,” Chris went back to Josiah’s question. “Like JD said, the issuance of the faulty permits was blamed on computer error. But most of them were reinstated without prejudice.”

It was Nathan who asked the inevitable question. “Did Williams’s department issue those permits?”

“His department was involved in the investigation,” JD said carefully. “But when I brought up names, Kelly started getting real cagey, like he didn’t want to answer.” He added quietly after a pause. “Like he was scared.”

Chris closed his eyes for a moment. All of this was hitting too close to home for him. Sarah and Adam had been killed when Waco was still a hot issue, and while no one had ever claimed responsibility for the bombing, Chris had a long list of likely suspects, including several paramilitary groups that had since disbanded. He wondered if Vin’s assessment was accurate – if they were arming once again. “Ezra, did D’Amico ever mention who his customers were for his merchandise?”

“Unfortunately, I fear my cover was blown right about the time I was gaining Gianni’s trust. Another few days, and I might have had some access to the files.”

“Computer files?” JD’s ears pricked up.

“JD, you know I am not conversant in the whys and wherefores of electronic data maintenance. All I know is that Gianni’s office is guarded by a dragon of a secretary named Margaret, who I believe was also his mistress on the side. The lady is fiercely loyal, and retained by Troy at some expense.”

“She attractive?” Buck asked.

“I truly hope you’re asking that for a reason,” Chris sighed.

“Hell, Larabee. Even an old biddy needs to step out once in a while.”

“No. I’m not even going there,” Chris said shortly. “You’re not James Bond, and I ain’t letting you play with Pussy Galore.”

Buck threw up his hands in innocent objection. “I was just offerin’ my services as a distraction.”

“That kind of distraction leads to disaster, my friend,” Josiah chuckled. “Think you ought to put that idea on the back burner.”

“J’siah’s right. D’Amico’s files are off limits. ‘Sides, seems t’me that D’Amico ain’t the feller in touch with Mohawk. Fazio is. And Ronnie ain’t the type to keep his appointments in a Palm Pilot.” Vin rubbed his eyes tiredly, and Nathan leaned forward.

“I think Vin needs a break here, Chris. And you, too.”

“We don’t have time, Nate.”

“Fifteen minutes ain’t gonna kill ya, Chris.”

He wasn’t about to argue with Jackson. He was too tired. “Coffee?” he offered the others, ignoring Nathan’s frown. He stood up, stretched, went to make a pot. Vin followed Chris into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, watching as Chris measured the coffee and filled the pot.

“I think the kid’s onto something with that reporter. There was a lot of shit going down and that shit still stinks.”

Chris slanted him a glance. “Yeah, I smell it too, pard. Every time Williams walks into the room.” He flicked on the switch and listened to the burp and bubble of the water as it steamed through the grounds. “God, we are *this* close!”

“Ain’t so sure I wanna git any closer, Larabee.”

“D’Amico?”

“He wants me to kill somebody, Chris.”

“If we can get this Mohawk, we might be able to find who and where.”

“If ... might ... I always hated those words.” He pushed away from the counter and started taking down mugs. “It’s like shooting through a mist and not being able to see what yer aimin’ at.”

 

The coffee pot burbled to a finish. The others drifted into the kitchen and carried their mugs back into the den where JD was scrolling down his computer screen. He paused, tapped in a password, and looked up. “I got something from Jimmy.” He read silently. “I didn’t even think of that,” he said, sounding disgusted. “And it was right there in front of me.”

“What is it, kid?” Buck asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“Williams’s bio when he applied to the ATF. It says right there. He’s part Native American. That’s got to be the reference to Mohawk.”

“That’s a mighty tenuous link, JD.” Caution tempered Chris’s instinctive response to the news. “I can’t take that to Travis unsupported.”

“What about the investigation in Phoenix? The gun dealers?”

“I’ll talk to Orrin in the morning. See if he knows anything else about that situation. Maybe he can call in favors. But I can’t go around pointing fingers. Not yet.” Chris paced to the mantel, paced back to where he had been standing behind the couch, and then paced back again, as if the physical activity could somehow relieve the tension that was tying him in knots of frustration and fear.

They sat in slightly glum silence, startled by the sudden jarring beep of Ezra’s cell phone. He looked at the number, then indicated for silence. They listened to the start and stop of Ezra’s conversation. “Yes. Yes, of course. I will be glad to pass the message on to Mr. Tanner. I’m sure he will be there. I apologize for the little misunderstanding at the Sportsmen’s Club. I assure you, it will not happen again as long as you keep Ronnie Fazio tethered a good distance away from Mr. Tanner. Good-bye.”

He closed the phone. “We have an appointment with Troy D’Amico tomorrow in his office. He insists we both attend.”

Chris looked at them, hard. “You should wear a wire.”

“No.” Ezra refused flatly. “No wires.”

“Christ, Ezra. I don’t want to send you and Vin in there unsupported. JD, think you can pull something out of your box of toys?”

JD shrugged. “Sure, I’ve got some things, but the problem is the range. Two hundred meters, line of sight is the best we can hope for.”

It wasn’t much. “Ezra, what’s the layout of the place?”

“As usual for a modern office, the secretary’s desk is in an outer room. But I would not put it past D’Amico to have his office swept for electronic surveillance. And his visitors, as well, I might add. The man is many things, but not stupid or careless, I fear.”

Chris thrust a frustrated hand through his hair. He wasn’t thinking clearly or he’d have been one step ahead of Ezra on that one. His tired body and stressed mind were screaming for relief.

Buck stood up, crossed over to where Chris stood by the mantel. He laid a warm, supportive hand on his shoulder. “Old son, you need t’get some rest. Come at this fresh in the morning. Pack up your things, JD, and let’s head on home.”

“I’m fine,” Chris objected, and heard Nathan’s derisive snort. He shot him a glare, but Jackson just glared right back, for once winning the contest of wills.

“Buck’s right – and you know I don’t say that too often. Ya gotta rest, Chris. And don’t argue on his behalf, Vin. You’re looking mighty transparent right now.”

Vin threw up his hands in surrender. “Hell, doc, I ain’t arguing.”

Chris looked around at his team. “See you in the morning. Eight a.m. Ezra, what time are you meeting D’Amico?”

“Eleven.”

“Good. That gives us a couple hours. I’ll keep you posted on what Travis has to say. Stay close to home, you hear me?”

“I will await your every word, Mr. Larabee. However, I have already arranged for a hotel room this evening just to confound any miscreants with designs on my person.” He gave Chris a rueful smile. “It would be a relief of no small magnitude if we could forego the pleasure of meeting D’Amico.”

“I’ll do my best, Ezra.”

Then JD was packed up, and he and Buck were ready to leave. Nathan called Rain to tell her he was on his way home, and Josiah followed them out the door, pausing for a moment to draw a deep breath of evening air before he, too, said good night.

Chris locked the door and returned to the den. Vin was out of the rocking chair and lying down on the sofa. Chris stood over him. “Don’t get comfortable, Tanner.”

Vin yawned. “I know. Go to bed.” He sat up, slowly unfolded his body. Stretched until his spine cracked. “G’night, Chris.”

“You too, partner.” He watched Vin make a slow progress down the hall towards the bathroom. Briefly, he considered a drink and then decided it wasn’t worth the havoc it would wreak on his stomach and head. He threaded a garland of mugs through his fingers and carried them to the kitchen. Then he turned off the lights and headed to his bedroom, and sleep.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

True to form, he slept only long enough to take the rough edges off physical exhaustion. Restless, unremembered dreams and an overactive mind roused him while it was still dark. Cursing, knowing sleep was a mirage on the horizon, he pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. He went out to the den, and then, wanting a smoke, he took a cheroot from the humidor on his desk and went out on the deck. It was cool, not really cold. He struck a match and puffed on the cigar until it drew. He was trying to break the habit, but sometimes weakness just won out. He didn’t know if it was the smoke itself, or the ritual that he found comforting, but at least it occupied his nervous hands and overworked mind.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The smell of tobacco drifting through his open window teased Vin awake. He knew that scent. Larabee. Tired and needing sleep, he still swung his legs around and reached for the clothes he had set at the foot of the bed. He padded through the silent house to the den. It was in darkness, but the lighter draperies at the sliding door to the deck stirred with a breeze. Vin coughed quietly to alert Chris to his presence, then slid the door wider to get his body through.

“Go back to bed,” Chris said. He didn’t turn around, just stared out into the darkness in front of him.

“Kinda hard to sleep with that tobacco smoke coming through my window. No – don’t put it out! Jesus, Chris. If I was set on sleepin’, I’d do it.”

Chris still stubbed out the butt. “Lost its flavor.”

Vin stood next to him, leaning his forearms on the rail and looking out over the dark landscape. The night was cloudy and the air smelled like rain. He could feel Chris radiating tension and another emotion that he wasn’t quite sure he could identify. Whatever it was, it had Larabee tied in knots. He took a breath and made a cautious foray into the treacherous territory of Chris’s moods.

“It ain’t the same,” he said, low and quiet, almost a whisper.

“As what?”

“Sarah and Adam. That’s what yer thinkin’ – thinkin’ that this is jist a replay of something ya couldn’t control, couldn’t foresee, and I’m tellin’ you it ain’t the same.”

A shaft of moonlight stabbed down through the clouds, falling on Larabee’s pale hair. His head was bent down and Vin couldn’t see his expression, but his shoulders were hunched and taut beneath the bulk of the sweatshirt. No reaction, no shift in that stance. Vin sighed. “D’Amico ain’t gonna do anything tomorrow, Chris. He wants ... he needs me alive. I ain’t no good to him dead. So let it go. It’ll be all right.”

Chris did straighten then, and even in the dim light, his eyes were glittering. “There is nothing *all right* about this. Nothing. And tonight, with this going back to when Sarah and Adam ...” His voice choked in his throat. “God, Vin. What am I supposed to feel?”

“Y’ain’t *supposed* to feel anything. You feel what ya feel. But I’m jist sayin’ you don’t have to wear yerself out worryin’ about me and Ezra. Not tomorrow. I’ll tell ya when t’start worryin’,” he said, laughing a little.

“Thanks,” Chris’s wry voice held a twist of a smile in it, and Vin saw the tension slowly leave his shoulders. He straightened, took a breath. “Think you’ll sleep?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s something, then.”

“Y’oughtta try it sometime.”

Chris gave a breath of laughter. “I will. C’mon in. It feels like rain.” He waited for Vin to go inside, shut the door and latched it. He watched him vanish into the darkness of the long hall. He truly hoped Vin would sleep. He wasn’t so sure about himself. He returned to the den and poured a finger of whiskey over ice. He drank it down, knowing he was asking for trouble, and ignoring the warnings he imagined Rain would heap on his head if she had known what he was doing. He poured a second drink, watering this one down to a less lethal concentration, and carried it to his bedroom. He lay on the bed, propped up against the headboard, drinking in the dark and waiting for sleep to claim him.


	4. Part Four

Part Four

Chris dropped Vin off at his apartment early the next morning. Vin checked for messages and was relieved when there were none. Not that his number was common knowledge, but he was not so naive to think that D’Amico wouldn’t have the resources to find it. Hell, if Williams was the source of the leak, he had access to all of Vin’s personal information. That was enough to make him shiver.

Seeking to dispel the chill, he brewed a pot of coffee, poured a mug, and added milk and sugar. He drank it slowly, waiting for the sugar and the caffeine to work their way through his veins. He took a shower, washed his hair, and dressed in chinos and a dark green tee shirt. He added a lightweight suede bomber jacket that Ezra had loaned him for one of their undercover assignments and had let him keep after he had bled on the lining. Still looked good, though. Good enough for a meeting with D’Amico. And his cleaner had gotten the stain out, mostly.

When Ezra called to tell him he was on his way over, Vin was ready. Ready right down to the Sig strapped on his ankle. Undoubtedly D’Amico would confiscate it before the meeting, but it sent the message that Vin had no illusions regarding the nature of their relationship. He waited fifteen minutes, then went to wait for Ezra downstairs.

The BMW glided to a stop in front of the building. Vin was at the curb before Standish had time to parallel park. Ezra looked relieved when Vin slid in and shut the door. He grinned at the skittish expression on the southerner’s face. “Nervous, Ez?”

“As a sheep driven to the wolf’s lair.”

“Trade in the Beemer fer a truck and ya won’t hafta worry.”

“And I suppose *that* is why Mr. Larabee’s Ram is outfitted with an alarm that makes Fort Knox look like an easy target?” Ezra asked in a sarcastic drawl. He pulled out into traffic. “I have no idea what will transpire at this meeting.”

“Reckon we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Were you able to allay Mr. Larabee’s anxieties?”

“Told him that we’d be all right as long as D’Amico needed us.”

“A logical assumption.”

“Sure hope we ain’t suddenly expendable.” Vin’s phone rang. He dug it out of his inner jacket pocket and flipped it open. “Yeah?”

“Hey, cowboy.” He caught the flash of Ezra’s gold tooth as he smiled at the familiar greeting. “Me and Ezra are on the way to the meeting.”

He heard Chris’s breath draw in a bit. “I figured that much. Vin?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

Vin sighed. “You talk to Orrin yet?”

“I’ve sent the report. I’ve got an appointment with him at eleven.”

“You know where me and Ez’ll be then. Good luck, Chris.”

“Thanks, partner. Call me ASAP, okay?”

“You got it. Watch your back.”

“You too.”

And then the tenuous link was broken. Vin closed his phone. “We almost there?”

“Five minutes.”

Vin sat in silence as Ezra pulled into a parking garage between two of Denver’s premiere office developments. Vin hated parking garages. He always felt like the concrete floors above and below him were threatening to collapse from the combined weight of the vehicles parked there, sandwiching him in the middle. He pressed his hand flat against his chest as if to remind himself to breathe. Ezra caught the gesture, and quickly looked away, understanding it.

The elevator to the penthouse floor wasn’t any better. Vin stood rigidly staring at the glowing buttons as they made the crawl up the panel. This was pretty much his idea of Hell, and when the doors finally opened, he was almost relieved to be at D’Amico’s office. He restrained himself from bolting out and drawing deep breaths, just stood for a moment with his eyes closed, waiting for his galloping heart to settle down.

Ezra had the grace to allow him that much time. He didn’t know if there were any deep psychological reasons for Vin’s claustrophobia, or if it were a genetic trait like his blue eyes and wavy hair. Either way, the man had a right to his fears. When Vin’s shoulders dropped to an easier posture, he cast Ezra a slightly apologetic glance before they stepped from the narrow hall into the main office area.

“Set for this?” Vin asked.

“Lead the way, Mr. Tanner. Lead the way.”

The carpet beneath Vin’s feet was thick enough to set him slightly off-balance, and was the color of aspen leaves in autumn; a rich, shimmering gold. The paneling on the walls was pale wood, with some sort of a gold-grey wash over it. The furniture in the lobby was modern and angular, upholstered in a fabric that looked gold in some lights, grey in others, iridescent and changeable as a butterfly’s wing. The far wall was entirely glass, offerng a view that was more valuable than the office space itself.

The surroundings were impressive and meant to intimidate the casual visitor. Vin sensed that, felt it like an itch between his shoulder blades. He was on alert, trying not to look like he was scoping the place out, even though that was exactly what he was doing. He stepped aside to let Ezra do the schmoozing with the receptionist, who was as decorative as her surroundings. Blonde, wearing a grey suit and a gold blouse. Vin wondered how many variations on that outfit she had in her closet. She was good, flirting with Ezra and still managing to be professional. She wasn’t paying much attention to him.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and pretended to admire the view. He found two cameras not meant to be camouflaged. He was sure there were others hidden in the recessed ceiling fixtures. The room itself was a long rectangle, no blind corners or alcoves. No place to hide. There was music playing in the background, classical and vaguely familiar.

Tosca.

He heard Ezra thank the receptionist and a moment later, come to stand at Vin’s side. “We have a few minutes to wait. It seems Troy has been delayed by an important business call.”

“He’s playing a game, Ezra. Listen to the music.”

Standish cocked his head for a moment. “Your ear is impeccable, Mr. Tanner.”

“Ain’t somethin’ either of us is likely to fergit. And he knows it. He’s got surveillance cameras, too. Some hidden, some not.”

“I am so glad I dressed for the occasion,” Ezra drawled.

“Mr. Standish?” The receptionist smiled at Ezra. “You and your associate may go in now.”

“May joy reign unconfined. Shall we?” He lifted a brow and Vin gave him a grim smile.

The receptionist pushed a button on her desk, and a section of paneling swung open to reveal another office. The room was as subtle in its way as the public reception area; darker shades of grey and gold and a lush oriental rug with a deep crimson field and a muted pattern that Ezra could have identified as Tabriz. Probably antique, and horrendously expensive.

The secretary, Margaret, was seated at an ebony desk. A titanium laptop computer and a telephone console occupied the gleaming surface. The woman sitting behind the desk was as sleek and sharp as her surroundings. Not pretty, not beautiful, but attractive and intelligent-looking. Vin put her age at mid-forties. She was wearing a black suit, and her dark hair was pulled back in a knot. Small gold and diamond earrings were her only jewelry. She looked at Vin like he had crawled out of particularly loathsome hole in the ground.

He figured she knew he had shot the old man and wouldn’t put it beneath her to use the lethal letter opener on her desk to cut his heart out given half a chance.

But not today, it seemed. She pushed a button on the console and a moment later, one of D’Amico’s bodyguards came out of the inner office. He conducted a thorough, but generally polite search of both Vin and Ezra, discovering the Sig on Vin’s ankle and removing it for him. It was a professional weapon, and he treated it and Vin with deference.

Ezra was unarmed and the guard patted him down and nodded to Margaret. “They’re clean.”

D’Amico’s disembodied voice floated through hidden speakers. “Send them in Margaret.”

*There were mikes,* Vin thought. No surprise there, either.

They were ushered into the inner sanctum. Later, Vin was able to recall very little about the physical details of the office – luxurious, certainly. Dark woodwork and dark walls, some sort of silvery and dark green fabric framing the windows and the view over the city. A fleeting thought that it was almost direct line of sight to Purgatorio. Those impressions and one that was not physical, but defined nonetheless.

Power.

Vin stayed quiet. His gaze ghosted around the room before settling on Troy D’Amico. He was standing behind a mahogany partners desk with the surface area roughly the size of a small country. Nice. He sneaked a glance at Ezra. The southerner was watching D’Amico warily, waiting for the rattler to strike. The rattler just smiled.

“Please, gentlemen. Sit down. We have business to discuss.”

So civilized. Three men making deals. It happened all the time.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris met with Orrin Travis in the much less lavish surroundings of the assistant director’s utilitarian office of the Denver Federal Center. About the only thing it had in common with D’Amico’s was the view it had over the city, but all of Chris’s attention was focused on the manila file folder on Travis’s desk. It held JD’s and Buck’s meticulous report on what they had discovered about Ed Williams and his connection to the D’Amico syndicate.

Travis poured some coffee for himself and held up a mug to Chris. “You want some of this?”

His stomach already felt like it was churning out battery acid. He shook his head, declining the offer. He waited for Travis to be seated at his desk before he asked, “Have you read it?”

“Yes.”

Chris didn’t like the measured, hesitant tone of the AD’s voice. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Chris, I can’t use this to make unfounded accusations –”

“Unfounded?” Rising tension roughened Chris’s voice and his eyes came up to meet Travis’s.

“Bad choice of words. Unproven, if you must. Half-investigated.”

“Buck and JD don’t leave things half finished, Orrin. Everything in that report is true and verifiable. Hell, it’s in Williams’s own records!”

“His records say he’s clean, Chris! Yes, there was some trouble. Yes, it was serious, but since he’s transferred to this office, his records are unblemished. A man deserves a second chance. Look at your team.” When Larabee’s eyes flashed with quick anger, Travis held up a conciliatory hand. “Be realistic about this. Vin Tanner – insubordination. Ezra Standish – suspicion of taking bribes, gambling addiction. Buck Wilmington – insubordination and questionable judgment. Josiah Sanchez – borderline alcoholic. Yourself – depression and unresolved personal problems. Nathan and JD are the only ones who came to you clean.”

“And that makes Vin and Ezra more expendable than a prick like Ed Williams?” Chris shot back.

“No! God, no.” Travis leaned forward, peering intently at Larabee. “I’m not fighting against you, Chris,” he sighed.

“That’s not what it feels like.”

“Let me do my job,” Travis said, sharply. “And you do yours.”

“I thought I was.”

“You’re thinking with your heart and not your head, Chris. And I understand that –”

Chris’s anger slipped his control and his words were as cold and as hard as his eyes. “This is what I understand. Vin and Ezra are meeting with D’Amico. Vin’s fairly certain that D’Amico wants him to kill somebody – somebody important, because if it were one of his old enemies, then he’d farm the job out to one of his goons. He *needs* a shooter with Vin’s qualifications – you don’t need me to tell you what those are. And if Vin refuses? He’s dead, and Ezra right along with him. So you *do* your job, Orrin. But don’t tell me how to think, or what to feel. Because if something happens to Vin, you’ll lose a hell of a lot more than the best sniper in the ATF.”

Angry, spitting nails, worried beyond caution, he jerked upright from the chair and whirled towards the door.

“Agent Larabee!” Travis’s voice snapped out, and startled, Chris halted and turned back towards the AD.

“Yes, sir?” Standing there, stiffly.

His suddenly still posture revealed too clearly the toll this case was taking on him, and Travis’s outrage faded to quick concern. Larabee looked like shit; too thin even for his lanky frame. Green eyes dark-circled. Pale. Lord, too pale. “Chris, are you all right?” The concern in Travis’s voice was genuine.

Chris looked at him. “I’m fine.” The tersely worded reply offered no reassurance to the Assistant Director.

“You don’t look it.”

“I haven’t been drinking.”

“Chris – I didn’t mean it that way.” But he had been thinking it and cursed himself for letting it show.

One blond brow lifted skeptically, and then he smiled. “Sure you did.”

Just a soft reply, but Travis felt it like a blow. “You’re more than an SAC, Chris. I consider you a friend. And I worry about my friends.”

“You know what, Orrin? So do I,” Chris replied softly. “I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I hear from Vin and Ezra.”

When he had gone, Travis sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. He placed a call to the deputy director of the Phoenix office, an old friend who owed him a favor. If Chris was right and there was dirt to be had on Ed Williams, he was the one man Travis trusted to tell him the truth.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin’s grandfather had been a plainspoken, straight-shooting man who, in the few years they’d had together, taught him pretty much everything he knew about riflery, life, and other folks. Even now, Vin tended to gauge others by that moral yardstick, and Troy D’Amico had been measured and found wanting on that scale. His blue eyes rested on the man behind the desk, and there was not a hint of respect, fear, or awe in their depths. They were as unreadable in Vin’s way, as Ezra’s were in his. Or as D’Amico’s.

Like a shark, Vin thought. Cold and inhuman. Predatory, but without lust. Sharks were never still, constantly on the prowl for prey, for weakness. Vin suppressed a shudder. He couldn’t risk a glance at Ezra.

D’Amico steepled his fingers, looked at Vin and Ezra over the tips, hiding the line of his mouth – not to show those shark teeth of his – Vin thought. He sat back a little, seeming to relax. “You got something to discuss, or did you just want to see if we were impressed with your digs?” Vin asked, tired of being the bait on the hook.

“Are you impressed?”

“Your view is ... incomparable,” Ezra said.

“Ain’t that much different than mine, Ez.” Vin said easily. “The surroundings are a mite fancier. And I’ll bet there ain’t no roaches in here.” He scanned the room. “Could be wrong about that, though.” He set his ankle across his knee, showing the leather holster beneath the cuff of his slacks. No gun there, but the intent was clear, and D’Amico noticed.

Just a slight shift in his chair before he spoke. “Could I offer you gentleman some refreshment? Some wine? A drink?” He spoke to Ezra, ignored Vin for a long, intentional moment before he spoke to him. “Water?” Just a hint of a sneer.

“Wouldn’t want to put you through any trouble.”

D’Amico pushed a button on his console. “Margaret. Bring water, ice.” He cocked a brow at Ezra. “Mr. Standish?”

“Scotch.”

“And Scotch.”

They sat uneasily until the door opened on silent hinges. Margaret wheeled in a small glass and brushed chrome cart with their beverages on it. She very precisely placed ice cubes in three glasses, splashed Scotch in two of them, and filled the other with water and a twist of lemon. Then left as silently and as efficiently as she had entered.

Vin thought this was all very civilized, but had no idea where it was leading. He sipped the water that tasted faintly of bitter lemon oil. He wondered why the normally loquacious Ezra Standish was nearly silent. He didn’t much care for being pressed into taking the initiative. He risked a sidelong glance at Standish. The southerner’s handsome face wore an expression of detached interest, but his eyes held a bright and hard intelligence; the look Vin recognized from the cut-throat poker games he had seen Ezra playing in the back rooms of Las Vegas. Obviously, he considered Vin and D’Amico to be the opponents to watch, and maybe they were.

He took another swallow of the water and set his glass down. “You got somethin’ ya want t’say, then say it. You an’ I both know this ain’t a social call.”

“Of course it isn’t. But there is no reason why we can’t meet without animosity. You apparently found Ronnie Fazio’s presence an irritation, so I’ve arranged this meeting without him.”

“Well, that’s mighty thoughtful of you, Mr. D’Amico, but maybe it wasn’t just Ronnie I found offensive,” Vin drawled, seeing the hot flare of anger in D’Amico’s eyes. “Maybe it was th’idea that you wanted to me say I’d kill a man fer no reason other than you were askin’ me to do it.”

“You disappoint me. I thought you were a professional.”

“You’ve never dealt with me like I was,” Vin said quietly, level and calm. “The sorta shooting you want me t’do isn’t a game. I don’t show up, take aim, shoot, and leave. There’s angles and light, vantage point, line of sight. Elevation, wind. A hundred variables I gotta take into account.”

“Then you will do it?” Avaricious light gleamed in those soulless eyes.

“Why should I offer a commitment when you won’t?” Vin said. “I ain’t so foolish t’go into any deal with you blind.”

“But you will make that commitment?”

“I don’t know. When you’re ready to talk – really talk – not this shitfaced pussy-footin’ around, let me know.” He stood up. “C’mon, Ezra. I need some air.”

D’Amico’s voice whipped out.” You don’t walk out on me, Tanner!”

Vin turned his head. “You gonna stop me?” The challenge sent color shooting onto D’Amico’s high cheekbones. Vin lifted his chin, met those angry eyes. “Didn’t think so.”

Ezra reached out a hand, looked at D’Amico and then to Vin’s back. Seemingly apologetic; hiding both pride and high amusement that Troy D’Amico had been trumped by the unprepossessing Texas sharpshooter. He was more cautious than Vin in his leaving, and wanting to keep his eyes on any tricks D’Amico might have up his sleeve, he backed out of the office, still looking like he had every intention of making Vin see the error of his ways in dealing with Troy.

But D’Amico didn’t move from behind he desk. He pushed the intercom button. “Margaret, let them leave. Tell Ted that he may return Mr. Tanner’s weapon.” He punched in a phone number and waited for an answer. “Ronnie? Good. Have you arranged that meeting we discussed? Then do it. *Now.* No, no tail on Tanner and Standish. They aren’t going anywhere I don’t know about.” He hung up the phone, drank the rest of his Scotch, and then leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced behind his head. It was a slow business, this plan of his, but it was fitting together. And when it was complete, he would be free of the tiresome ATF agents who had threatened to destroy the foundations of his empire.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin’s walking pace picked up speed the closer he got to the garage. He hadn’t said a word during the elevator ride, just stood there trip-wire tense watching the progression of indicator lights down the panel. There was a hard knot of muscle at the angle of his jaw, and the white patches at the corners of his mouth showed how pulled tight he was. Ezra had a feeling he was one of the causes of that tension, but wasn’t stupid enough to take up the issue with a man who had an automatic pistol strapped to his ankle. He’d had his own reasons for playing the scene the way he had, and when Vin was less wound up, he’d explain.

When the elevator car reached the garage level, Vin finally spoke. He held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

“W-what?”

“You got insurance?”

“Yes, but –”

“Then give me the fuckin’ keys, and let me drive.”

“I am not so sure that is a good idea in your current state of mind.”

“Good, ya really *can* talk. I’s beginnin’ t’think ya’d gone dumb on me.”

“Now wait a second!”

“Second’s up. Give me the keys!” Ezra took one look at those blue eyes, and handed over the keys. If Vin Tanner wrecked the car, he’d have to pay the premiums for the rest of his life ... if Ezra let him live.

Vin jerked the door open, impatiently fiddled with the seat adjustment to accommodate his longer legs, and started the engine. He wheeled out of the garage, smooth and faster than he should have been going, but in control. He shifted and took off down the side streets he knew like the back of his hand, avoiding the traffic that snarled Denver’s streets. He found an entrance to the freeway and hit the ramp, easing into the high speed lane and accelerated. He didn’t often do this, but he needed to expend some of the pent-up tension and emotional anger that had him tied in knots, and the powerful engine of the BMW responded to his needs. When they were out of the city congestion, Vin increased his speed and rolled the window down. He breathed the cool air, felt it tangle his hair. His tension eased off a bit and he turned to look at Ezra.

Standish was warily tucked into the corner of the leather seat, only slightly white-knuckled, but clearly apprehensive.

“You mind tellin’ me why you had a sudden attack of the silents up in D’Amico’s office?”

“You noticed?”

“Hell, Ez. Anytime you ain’t talkin’, the silence gets downright deafening.”

Ezra relaxed a bit more, releasing the grip he had on the edge of the seat as Vin’s tension eased up. “I thought you were doing an admirable job of handling Mr. D’Amico without my interference.”

“Yeah, right. He could ‘a pulled a gun on me, Ez. Shot me in the back.”

“I had my reasons, Mr. Tanner.”

“You mind sharin’?”

“It seemed to me that you were particularly bent on aggravating our adversary from the beginning, so in order to maintain an avenue of communication, I chose to observe rather than participate. That way, when you so eloquently stormed out of the office, I was able to present a wounded and apologetic mien to Mr. D’Amico and watch your back.”

Vin gave a snort of laughter. “Damn, Ezra. Took ya fifty words t’say you were playing the good cop.”

“Blame it on my mother. Maud taught me to never use one word, when ten will make a much better impression.”

“Grandpa always said why use ten words when one made your point clear.”

“Ah, there is the difference. Why be clear when obfuscation is so much more advantageous?” He saw the smile curve Vin’s mouth, and had to smile back. “Do you have any idea where you are going?”

“Jist takin’ the long way home in case D’Amico decides to keep tabs on us.”

“You think he’s not?” Ezra asked.

“Hopin’ they ain’t the kind of tabs with big muscles and guns, is all. Give Buck a call. Have him get the guys together for lunch at Inez’s. Tell him we’ll meet ‘em there around one.”

“That’s an hour yet.”

“Yeah, but since I got my hands on this Beemer, I figure to enjoy it while I can.” He flashed Ezra a grin of pure joy and floored it.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
Part Twenty Three

The cool, dark cavern of Inez’s bar was a welcome refuge from the glare and noise of downtown Denver at lunch hour. Head down and eyes averted from the too bright sun reflecting off concrete, Chris ducked inside, followed by Buck and the other members of his team. They came here often enough not to arouse suspicion if they were being watched. Chris was fairly certain that Vin would make use of Inez’s inconspicuous back entrance and not risk coming through the front of the restaurant.

Inez greeted them when they came through the doors. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Inez.” Chris managed a smile for the petite brunette. She gave him a worried look, seeing more than he thought he was revealing. The others, too, were unusually somber, even JD’s youthful ebullience quelled by the same concerns that had subdued his fellow agents. Vin and Ezra weren’t with them, and she felt their absence from that company as acutely if she were a member of Team Seven.

“I have a room set up for you. I thought you might like someplace quiet.” She led the way to one of her two private dining rooms. A round table had been set up with seven chairs. A pitcher of ice water sweated in the center of the table, and a basket of fresh bread perfumed the air with a buttery, yeasty aroma. Chris let the others enter first and waited for Inez at the doorway.

After she had handed out menus, she came up to him, looking at him with dark, worried eyes. Impulsively, she reached up and laid a cool hand on his forehead. The gesture startled him, but he didn’t move away from her touch. “I’m not sick, Inez.”

“Hmm.” She stood with her hands on her hips. “I could argue with that.”

“Do me a favor and don’t,” Chris growled. “Did Vin call?”

“He and Ezra should be here by one.”

“He sound all right?”

“I only spoke to Ezra. He seemed to be a little tense, but he said he and Vin were all right, and they were on their way.” She pulled out a chair. “So stop worrying and sit down.”

He sat down. The worry wouldn’t go away just because Inez was standing there with her hands on her hips matching him glare for glare. Satisfied, Inez took their drink orders; sodas or iced tea since they were on duty. When she returned, she set a tall glass filled with a white beverage in front of Chris. He looked at it suspiciously. “What is this?”

Inez smiled. “Horchata. Rice, milk, vanilla, sugar, cinnamon. It will soothe your stomach.”

“How did –”

“You have two vertical lines between your eyes.” She patted him lightly on the shoulder, making Buck chuckle.

“She’s got yer number, pard.”

“Yeah, and you wish it was yours,” Chris’s voice was sharp, but there was a welcome smile on his lips. He took an experimental sip of the horchata. It was cool, sweet; he wasn’t sure he liked it, but it went down easily enough. He was willing to give it a shot. Modern pharmaceuticals weren’t doing much for him.

Josiah was the first to ask Chris about the meeting with Travis. Chris rubbed his forehead tiredly. “It wasn’t what I had hoped for.”

“Did he look at what Buck and I put together?” JD asked.

“He looked. He needs more evidence.”

“We did our best!”

“I know you did, JD. And it was good enough for him to investigate further. But he can’t take action on his own.”

“Not even to save Vin and Ezra?”

Josiah set his hand on JD’s shoulder. “Easy, son. It ain’t come to that, yet.”

“But –” JD’s protest was broken off when he looked up and saw Vin and Ezra in the doorway. “Hey, Vin!”

Vin grinned, tossed a set of keys back to Ezra and slid into a chair next to Chris. “Hey, JD. Chris.” His eyes glinted in the dim illumination, and Chris felt the vibration of reckless tension leap the physical gap between them; a wordless communication that sent apprehension shooting through Chris’s stomach. That Tanner’s stillness was so stirred up by whatever he and Ezra had gotten into with D’Amico wasn’t a good sign. Vin didn’t rile easily, and that had Chris worried.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Sure. Jist had a little talk with Troy D’Amico. Real civil-like.”

Chris heard Ezra’s faint, derogatory snort. “How civil?”

“I’m sittin’ here, ain’t I?” But the high color staining his cheekbones betrayed him, and Chris swore he could feel his own pulse quickening to match Tanner’s. The slight, defiant tilt to the Texan’s chin didn’t do a thing to reassure him. “What’d you find out from Orrin?” Vin asked.

So Tanner wasn’t talking. Chris knew that if he had something to say to the team, he’d tell them right away. There was nothing new, then, that would affect the case, but something had set Vin on that sharp edge of nerve that Chris sensed like an electric current. He’d talk to him later, get him to open up. Meanwhile, Inez was bringing in dishes of food they could serve family style with enough of a choice to suit everybody, even Chris’s touchy stomach.

They didn’t talk much about anything but how good the food was and how hungry they all were. They ate quickly, and when the dishes were cleared, they settled back, waiting for Chris to speak.

Vin slouched down in his seat, deceptively relaxed. “Well, what about Travis?”

“I didn’t get much from him,” Chris said, reluctant to make that admission.

Buck leaned forward. “Never thought I’d see the day Travis wouldn’t give ya one hundred percent support. Makes me wonder what the hell is goin’ on here.”

Even if he had agreed, Chris couldn’t admit his own doubts. Travis was his boss, his friend, and he had never given Chris any reason to question his loyalty or his commitment to the disparate group of renegades Chris had formed into Team Seven. “We owe him, Buck. Big time.”

“You ever think who *he* might owe? We put that folder on his desk, what more can he want? Our blood? Hell, if he waits long enough, he just might get that, too.”

“He just needs a few hours to solidify the case, Buck. I promised him that much.”

“I hate t’tell you this, ol’ pard. Time’s a wastin’.” Buck’s pager beeped, and he cursed at the number. “It’s Williams. Guess I’d better go and *liaise*.” A faint sneer curved his mouth.

“Keep your cards close to your vest, my friend,” Ezra said softly. “And watch your tells.”

Buck grinned at that. “Advice from a gambler?”

“Advice from a friend.” There was no laughter in that quiet voice, and Ezra’s green eyes were serious. Buck found himself oddly moved by that concern, a concern he saw reflected in the faces of the other men around the table, even Chris’s.

“Don’t worry about this ol’ son.” Buck winked at them. “I got it covered. See ya at the office, Chris?”

“I’ll be there.” His gaze was thoughtful as he watched Buck leave. He looked at the others. “Guess we’d better get outta here. Vin, you need a ride home?”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. It wasn’t a question, not really. He’d been waiting for Chris to find an opportunity to talk to him. “Sure. Now that I’ve given Ezra back his keys. Y’all notice the grey hairs sproutin’ on him?”

Ezra showed his teeth. “Wait until our next poker game, Mr. Tanner. Revenge will be mine.”

“Yeah, you jist keep thinkin’ that, Ez.” He stood up, stretched out his back. His side ached dully, but it was healing and it wouldn’t slow him down. He caught Nathan watching him and gave him a wry smile. “You c’n stop glarin’ at me, Nate. I’m good.”

“Stay that way.”

“I’ll do m’best. Ready, Chris?”

They settled the bill with Inez and left. Outside, the heat of the day had given way to clouds, and a darker rim over the mountains presaged more rain for the evening. There wasn’t a breath of air stirring, not even the currents that usually swirled around the tall buildings downtown. The atmospheric pressure was a physical force throbbing in Chris’s temples. He and Vin walked quickly to the lot where he had parked the Ram. Not talking, because what was waiting to be said was as weighted as the storm-laden air.

Vin’s apartment was only a mile and a half from Inez’s place, but worlds away in ambience, as urban areas so often are. Chris wheeled the truck into his usual space next to Vin’s jeep, armed the security system, and followed the silent Texan up the four flights of stairs.

Vin opened the door and slapped on the light. “Make yerself at home. I’m gonna get out of these duds.”

“You’re avoiding the issue, here, pard.”

“Hell, I jist want ta feel more like myself. Cain’t do that wearing Ezra’s hand-me-downs.” He gave Chris an uneasy grin, knowing that he was avoiding talking about D’Amico. Wondering if he’d handled it badly, if he’d screwed things up past fixing. “Soda’s in the fridge,” he said instead and vanished into the bedroom.

He stripped off the clothes he had worn and put on jeans and a dark blue tee shirt. It was too hot for long sleeves. Sometimes he wondered if the folks going on about global warming were right – seemed the weather wasn’t the same two days running. Or maybe he was just losing track of it, losing part of himself that needed some sort of peace and solace to reconnect with the places he had always found his inner balance. When this was over, he’d go off for a couple weeks – hunt, fish, sleep. Find a spot as far from the city and Purgatorio as he could get.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, seeing a taut, hard-faced man he didn’t recognize. The features were the same, but he was seeing a stranger in his own skin. He was losing himself. God ...

“Vin? You all right?” Chris’s concerned voice made him startle.

“Yeah. Yeah – I’ll be right out.” How long had he been staring in the mirror? Jesus, he *was* losin’ it.

He went into the kitchen and got a Coke from the refrigerator. Chris was sitting on the couch, his head tipped against the back of the cushions, legs stretched out. He sat up when he felt the cushions give under Vin’s weight.

“Give,” he said. “Everything.”

“Hell, it wasn’t like that, Chris,”

“Well, it sure fucked you up.” He saw anger knot at the angle of Vin’s jaw. “I’ve known you for a while now, and I’ve *never* seen you like this, Vin. Something’s set you off.”

“Nearly dyin’ does that to ya, pard.”

“Tell me what went down. Word for word. Action for action. I’ll know if you leave anything out.”

Vin laughed softly. “Yeah, I reckon you would.” He drank down a deep swallow of Coke, and leaned back. He closed his eyes, trying to put his thoughts in order. “Nothin’ happened, not really. Ezra and me went to D’Amico’s office. Shit, Chris. You should see that place. All gold and silvery-grey – even got a pretty blond receptionist to match – but cold. Windows lookin’ out over the mountains ... Troy could charge admission fer folks to take in that view. But he’s got cameras and mikes all over the place. Ya cain’t hardly breathe without him watchin’ and hearin’ everything. That’s when ya git the chills.”

He turned wide eyes to Chris. “Music, too. He was playin’ Tosca. He knew me and Ez would recognize it. Made me angry.”

“Angry?”

“I don’t much like bein’ treated like dirt, bein’ threatened. He wanted me t’be so cowed by his money, and his power, and my own damn fear, that I’d do ‘xactly what he wanted.”

“I thought that was the whole point of the meeting?”

“He wasn’t gonna tell us anything. Wants me t’jist show up wherever, and kill whoever he wants. I told him I couldn’t do it. And I walked out.”

“You walked out?”

“Yeah.” Vin gave him a sidelong look and a smile. “Ezra stayed right with me, right at my back. Kinda like you. Takes balls t’ do that with D’Amico’s snake eyes on ya.”

“Well, Ezra may be many things, but he’s not a fool and he’s not a coward.” He turned slightly, facing Vin. “You took a risk there, partner.”

Vin sighed, looked away, as if he didn’t want Chris to see his thoughts. “Chris ... th’whole damn job is a risk. You took a risk hirin’ me on. Ya take a risk every time ya go out on the streets.”

“I’ve paid for taking those risks, Vin. I don’t want to pay again. And I don’t want any of you going through what I’ve been through – not for the job.” He stood up restlessly and paced to the window, standing there like a narrow shadow against the fading afternoon light. “It’s not worth it.”

“We don’t do it for the job. Y’ought ta know that.”

Chris turned back to Vin, his eyes luminous. “I know it.”

“Just so you’re straight with that.” Vin lifted his Coke. “Here’s to the job.”

Chris shifted his shoulders and walked away from the window. He gave Vin a wry smile as he raised his glass. “Yeah. To the job.” His cell phone rang before he could touch the rim to Vin’s. “Shit.” Whoever was on the other end didn’t even give him a chance to bark out his name. “You sure? Okay, we’re on the way.” He closed his phone, looked at Vin. “We’ve got a problem.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Buck returned to the office, fuming over his recall, ready to throttle Williams if he didn’t have a damn good reason for interrupting his meal. He strode down the hall to Williams’s office, knocked perfunctorily, and pushed the door open without waiting for official permission to enter. “This had better be good ...” he started, then realized that Williams wasn’t there. “Shit!” He stormed out and went two offices down to the Treasury Department. Three other agents were sitting at their desks.

“Where’s Ed Williams?” Buck demanded.

“Don’t know.” One of the Treasury guys responded with a shrug.

“What the hell does that mean? I get a call to meet him here and he vanishes into thin air?”

“He said he got a call from an informant and that he’d be back. Take a number and sit down.”

“He say anything about who this informant is? Where they might meet?”

“Hey, he’s the boss. He runs his own stable of sources, and he doesn’t share every tidbit of info with us, hard as that may be to believe.” He sounded bitter about that, and Buck thought about Chris, who might jealously guard his emotions, but was unfailingly generous with his time and information.

“Well, when he decides to grace your presence, send him down to the ATF. I’ll be waiting,” Buck scowled. He returned to Team Seven’s offices and dropped his big frame into his chair. There was a three-inch stack of paperwork on his desk at his elbow, and five or six pink “while you were out” slips stuck on the spike on his desktop. Buck pulled them off and flipped through them. Nothing that couldn’t wait. He opened his e-mail. Nothing new. Bored and still seething at Williams, he flipped on the police scanner and leaned back, his long legs propped on his desk. He listened to the flat tones of the dispatcher and beat cops as they made their reports. He had just achieved a slightly glazed look of total and utter detachment when the tone of the voices on the radio suddenly changed. Buck sat up, listening intently. A body had been found in Purgatorio, near a bar called Angel’s.

Feeling like his breath had been sucked out of his lungs, Buck got to his feet. Before he could move from his desk, his phone rang.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The skies over Denver darkened as the storm clouds rolled down the range of the Rocky Mountains, the first inky streamers reaching towards the city like clutching fingers. The wind tugged at Vin’s hair and clothing, sent swirls of rubbish dancing across the pavement, and the moisture laden air was a humid breath on his cheek. Lightning pulsed on the horizon and the thunder seemed to vibrate from the sky to the ground to shudder in his breast. He and Chris reached the Ram as the first heavy drops struck the windshield like small stones.

Three blocks, and if it hadn’t been for the storm, they could have run it in the amount of time it took to start the truck, drive over, and park it. The rain was unrelenting, a steady, wind-driven downpour that didn’t look like it would let up anytime soon. As they turned the corner the flash of red and blue lights provided a steady counterpoint to the intermittent flare of lightning.

It wasn’t the usual crew for a homicide in Purgatorio. In addition to the expected black and whites, and EMS units, a number of dark sedans with government plates were parked curbside. Uniformed cops, plainclothes homicide detectives, forensics experts. And federal agents. Including a tall, rawboned ATF agent in a cowboy hat.

Buck looked up and saw them coming through the lashing rain. His face was white, set. He started to say something, then shook his head and looked away for a moment. “S’bad, Chris. He was found ‘bout an hour ago by Ramirez’s bartender, comin’ out t’dump the trash. Shot once, back of the head, execution style. Hands bound behind his back with duct tape. Eyes, too. Ed Williams was a goddamned bastard, but he didn’t deserve to go out like this.”

Vin shivered and stuck his hands in his pockets. The rain ran in rivulets down his hair and his face. “Wouldn’t feel too sorry fer him, Bucklin. Ya hang around with trash ‘n sooner ‘r later yer gonna git swept up right along with the rest of the garbage.” But his eyes were sad as he spoke, his voice just a quiet rasp, scarcely audible over the falling rain. “I’m gonna talk t’Ramirez.”

Ramirez was being questioned by a uniformed cop who looked fresh out of the academy. He had taken a belligerent stance, obviously irritated by the cop’s questions, sullen and uncooperative. Vin tapped the cop on the shoulder and flipped his badge. “Y’ain’t getting’ anywhere, kid. Take a break.”

Ramirez reached for a cigarette and lit it. He was sheltered from the rain just enough to protect the flame. He drew in the smoke, blew it out. “Thanks. He’s like a little dog, ya know? Won’t let go. Jest keeps shakin’ an’ shakin’.” He grinned. “Hell of a day.”

“Ya got a dead federal agent in yer alley, Angel. Don’t see anything funny in that.”

“Fuck.”

Vin moved a step closer. “Yeah, yer fucked all right. But unless ya can come up with a damn good explanation, you c’n kiss this place goodbye and say howdy to all yer friends in Florence.”

Ramirez looked like he was about to choke on his smoke. “I didn’t have a fuckin’ thing t’do with this!”

“You see Ronnie Fazio around here t’day?”

“No!”

“The dead guy – was he the feller Fazio met up with here?”

Ramirez hesitated. “Maybe ... I dunno. Hard t’tell with his face blown off.”

“Ya don’t make an identification by the face, Angel. Ya look at fingers, ears, things that are hard t’change. Was he the guy?”

Ramirez’s eyes took on a thoughtful expression. “Yeah, he was. Far as I can tell.”

“He come inside at all today?”

“Nah. First I knew was when my bartender said he heard somethin’ in the alley and came runnin’ in yellin’ at me t’call the cops.”

“Thanks, amigo. You tell that to the cops, and they’ll leave ya alone.”

“Gracias.”

Vin nodded and sent the cop back to Ramirez. The ME had arrived to bag the body, and Vin watched as they raised the tarp. The rain came down, washing blood from the shattered skull. Duct tape showed through the strands of dark, wet hair. A black baseball cap lay on the pavement as if Williams had carelessly tossed it aside. A tech came through with a body bag, and they all moved aside. Vin caught his arm. “Can the ATF get a copy of the report?”

“Don’t see why not. Call tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

Orrin Travis arrived at the same time as his daughter-in-law and the media. Vin took refuge in the recessed doorway of the bar, watching as Chris, Travis, and a representative from the Treasury office gave an interview to Mary. Vin wondered what was being said. Words along the line of: “A tragic loss. Killed in the line of duty. The victim of a heinous crime. A hero.” A hero who’d been selling out his fellow agents, covering for the worst sort of scum, dealing in illegal weapons. The press would never hear the truth about Ed Williams. And Vin wasn’t so sure that any purpose would be served if they did.

A cool wind picked up. The rain slowed to a drizzle as the twilight deepened. The ME took the body from the scene, the squad cars pulled away. Angel turned on his sign, but something told Vin that he wouldn’t have many customers tonight. Mary, her blond hair protected by an umbrella, finished her report from the scene. She said something to Chris, kissed him on the cheek, gave Orrin a hug, and hurried off.

Buck strolled over to Vin. “Shitty night,” he sighed.

“Ain’t hardly night, Buck.”

“Hell, it was night at three o’clock this afternoon. You okay, Junior?”

“No.” He pulled his jacket closer. “Cold, tired.”

“I’ll take ya home if you want.”

“Thanks, Buck, but I’ll wait fer Chris. I wanna tell him what Angel said. Fill ya in in the morning.” Buck nodded and ambled off, the slump of his broad shoulders betraying his weariness.

Chris finally finished talking to Orrin. He took one look at Vin, pale and shivering in the dark entrance to Angel’s and dragged him inside the bar. “Two coffees. Put a shot of whiskey in ‘em.”

“I shouldn’t be drinkin’ – ”

“You need it, Tanner. And so do I. No arguments.”

Vin subsided. He figured what Dr. Stone didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And it wasn’t like he’d have more than that one small shot. Just enough to chase the chill and give him the strength to get home. Lord, he needed strength ...

The coffee came, hot and fragrant with whiskey. The heat was welcome to his fingers when he held the mug, to his throat and belly when swallowed. His chills subsided. Chris looked better, too. Not so pale, but his eyes were still shadowed. He took another swallow and turned to Vin.

“You have any thoughts on this?”

“A few. Might not be worth much.”

Chris dug in his jeans pocket and set three pennies on the bar. “Pay you for ‘em.”

“Hell, that’s inflation for ya.”

“Tell me.”

“Run a ballistics test on the bullets. Compare ‘em with the ones from the night I’s shot. Don’t think Ronnie was there, but if ya can tie him to both shootings, it’ll be a better case for ya.”

“For us.”

Vin sighed. “Yeah.” He drank his coffee, but the beverage had lost some of its power to comfort. He slid off the barstool. “I’ve gotta go, Chris.”

“Sure. Let me finish –”

“Don’t. It’d be better if we split. Don’t want D’Amico gettin’ ideas.”

Chris bit back the instinctive objection. He knew Vin was right. And as painful as it was, he had to acknowledge that his probing of Williams’s background might have been the catalyst to his murder. He reached for Vin’s arm, clasped it, and felt his own clasped warmly in return. “Keep in touch, Vin. Anytime.”

“You got it. Don’t go blamin’ yerself, Chris. Williams knew what he was doing, knew what he’d done. The writin’ was on the wall, and he should’a read it like a warning.”

“He outlived his usefulness.”

“And I ain’t, so don’t worry on it, Chris.” He released Larabee’s arm. “Talk to ya later.”

Chris watched Vin out the door.. He finished his now cool coffee and left a five on the bar. He walked quickly to the Ram, started it, and eased it onto the rain-wet streets. He drove slowly until he spotted Tanner’s lithe, easy figure striding down the block towards his apartment. He held back, ignoring the impatient drivers around him, shadowing Vin until he saw him enter the door of his building. He parked on the street, waiting for the lights to go on in Vin’s apartment and when they did, he still lingered for a few minutes, looking up, half-expecting trouble, but there was none, just Vin’s shadow as he crossed the window, paused long enough to open it a few inches, then closed the blinds.

Chris pulled out into traffic, headed towards downtown and the Federal Building. It was going to be a long night.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
Part Twenty Four

The death of an agent brought the entire resources of the investigative agencies housed in the Denver Federal Center to bear on the case. The FBI, Treasury, ATF: they all wanted to be part of the hunt to track the killer. Chris had to fight his way through the lobby; past news media, cops, feds. He headed towards the elevators, then changed his mind and took the stairs up three flights before exiting and catching the elevator on the third floor. He wished the ATF and Treasury didn’t share the 12th floor, but they did, and he dreaded the walk through the hall. Attempting to avoid that, he did another end–around, getting off at eleven and taking the stairs farthest from the elevators and closest to the ATF offices. That end of the hall was fairly quiet, but lit up like Christmas. It gave Chris a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. He set his hand on the door, paused for a moment gathering his strength and his thoughts, then went inside.

They were all there, all but Vin and Ezra. Buck came over to him, concern clear in his eyes. He clasped Chris’s shoulder. “Hey, pard. Junior get home all right?”

“I made sure of it,” Chris replied. He settled in Vin’s chair, looked around at his team. “What’s happening?”

Buck answered first. “There’s a briefing in Travis’s office in ten minutes. I’m sure glad you showed up for it.”

“Thanks,” Chris managed a wry smile. “But don’t think you’re getting out of it just because I’m here.”

“Yeah, but at least I don’t have ta sit there bitin’ my tongue t’keep from lightin’ into the higher-ups.”

“Chris, you want me there, too?” JD asked. “I mean, I was the one looking into Williams’s background, and me and Buck were the ones who put that file together.” His dark brows were knit anxiously as he waited for Chris’s response.

Chris’s first instinct was to say no; he tended to say no a lot to Dunne. Those wide hazel eyes got to him every time, and sometimes he needed to be reminded that JD might be young, but he wasn’t a kid – he was as much an ATF agent as Chris himself – a bit wet behind the ears, but no innocent. “Thanks, JD. Yeah, it might be a good idea.” The reward wasn’t a smile, but a nod so reminiscent of Vin’s that it took Chris aback for a moment. “Get your files together and let’s get up there. I ain’t looking forward to this.”

“Chris, if there’s anything I can do ...” Nathan said with a glance at Josiah. “Anything we can do – just say the word.”

Chris swallowed the ache that had risen in his throat. Both agents had other commitments outside of the job, and they had already put in more time than Chris had any right to ask. He smiled slightly, gratitude in his eyes. “It’s been a long day. I don’t see any point in all of us being exhausted tomorrow morning. The best thing you can do for yourselves and for me is to get some rest and come in fresh. God knows, I ain’t gonna be the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

Josiah showed his teeth in a knowing smile. A dull Chris Larabee was still lethal; quick in mind and in body, and Josiah wasn’t going to be the one to argue with him. “You need us, we’ll be there, Chris. You know that, right?”

“I do.” Chris rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Do me a favor, though. Give Vin a call – just ask how he is. Don’t talk about the case, don’t ask about Ezra, just ... just ask him, okay?”

“And?” A grey brow lifted inquisitively. Hesitancy was not something Josiah normally associated with his boss.

“I’ll call you when I get out of the meeting.”

Nathan gave Chris a hard study. “You take it easy in there, Chris. Y’ain't gonna do Vin and Ez any good if ya blow out that ulcer.”

Beneath the familiar rub of irritation, Chris was grateful for the concern. “I’m all right.”

Nathan set a hand on his shoulder. “You need *anything*, you call.”

“Thanks, Nate. Josiah.” Chris sighed and turned to Buck and JD. “I’ve got to get my file. I’ll meet you up there.”

Buck was frowning at him. “Sure.” He wasn’t Vin, and even after all the years he’d known Chris, he still couldn’t read his mind. He looked at his best friend and saw fatigue, worry, nagging pain, all underlaid with anger and frustration. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Didn’t mean he’d stop trying, though. “C’mon, JD. Let’s get a seat up front. Don’t want to miss none of the dog and pony show.”

Chris went into the small bathroom off his office. Nausea pulled at his stomach, made him feel dizzy and like he was going to retch. He turned on the cold water, wet several paper towels, and laid them against the back of his neck. When the vertigo subsided, he splashed more cold water on his face, cooling his hot cheeks and taking some of the fire out of his dry eyes. He couldn’t avoid looking in the mirror when he straightened up. A gaunt, hollow-eyed stranger gazed back at him. Too pale, too strained. Cheeks stubbled with a beard that might be blond, but more likely was showing as much silver as gold. Two years ago, he would have gone for the whiskey bottle in his drawer to drown out that sight. But he wasn’t the same man now. And he would never be again.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt, tightened his tie. Dragged a wet comb through his hair. He plugged in his electric razor and shaved the day’s stubble from his cheeks. When he had finished, he looked decent enough; still exhausted and pale, though no longer like a derelict. He felt the call of the whiskey bottle, but he had the strength to quell that siren song.

The file on his desk seemed to weigh a ton. Chris tucked it under his arm, like a gladiator taking up his shield and sword. He didn’t know what Travis would say – might be nothing more than the usual SOP when an agent was killed. Chris wanted it to be more. He owed it to Vin and Ezra.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

 

Vin startled awake in his dimly lit apartment, his heart pounding, his hand reaching for the Sig strapped to his ankle before he reached a level of awareness that allowed him to realize that his cell phone was ringing. He fumbled for it on the coffee table, answered it in a voice that scarcely sounded like his, his throat was so dry and thick.

“Vin?”

Not Chris. “J’siah?” He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, sure. I’s asleep. Thought maybe it was Chris callin’.”

“He would have, under any other circumstances.”

Panic hit. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Easy, son. He’s all right. And far as I know, so’s everybody else. He just wanted me to call you. You know why he’s bein’ so damn cautious, right?”

“Reckon I do.” It was the same caution that had prompted Vin to walk home from Angel’s instead of taking a ride with Chris. “Thanks fer checkin’ up on me,” he said softly, touched by the concern he heard in Josiah’s voice.

“You just keep yourself safe, brother.”

“J’siah?”

“Nothin’ ... jist wonderin’ how Chris is doin’?”

“I’d need x-ray vision for that, Vin. Right now, he’s in Travis’s briefing. I’m praying it don’t get ugly in there.”

“How much uglier c’n it get?” Vin sighed.

Josiah’s soft laugh held very little mirth. “I ain’t so sure I want to answer that.”

“I ain’t so sure it needs answerin’. Jist tell Chris I’m alright an’ I’ll be in touch. You heard from Ezra?”

“No ... should we have?”

“Don’t know. It’s hard t’tell with Ez ... ” Vin’s voice trailed off.

“Listen, you don’t hear from him soon, you call me.”

The urgency made Vin’s skin prickle with a chill. “I gotta go, J’siah. Later.”

Vin signed off and punched in Ezra’s number. Got Standish’s voice mail. Vin looked at his watch. It was early evening yet. He could be anywhere. “Ez, Vin. You git a chance, call me. I’ll be here.”

He pushed himself up from the couch, every muscle aching like he’d gone ten rounds in the boxing ring. He went into the bathroom, flipped the light. He turned the shower on hot, stripped and got in, letting the streams of water beat on his back, and grateful that he had water pressure. He braced himself against the tile wall, the water sheeting down his body until the tiny room was filled with steam and the hot water began to run cool.

When he had dressed in clean jeans and a flannel shirt for warmth over a navy blue tee, he went into the kitchen. The heat had taken care of the knots in his muscles, but the ones in his stomach persisted. He had to eat, had to feed his body. He melted butter in a frying pan, threw in a handful of frozen hash browns, scrambled eggs, made a mess of an omelet with cheese grated on it and topped it with salsa. He toasted bread, spread it with butter. Wasn’t what Rain would call nutritious, but he figured it covered all the basic food groups, plus a couple that kept the docs in business.

He carried his meal into the living room and turned on the TV. Ed Williams’s death was the headline at the top of the hour before the networks started their line-ups. The anchor used all the right words – all the words that Ed Williams wasn’t – heroic, brave, patriotic. Vin listened to them, wondering what words Chris was using in the briefing, wondering if Buck was at his side to restrain that flash fire temperament of his. Maybe he shouldn’t be restrained, maybe it was time for the suits to remember what happened to agents on the streets. Williams might have been corrupt, but he hadn’t started out that way, and his death was a sobering reminder that the agents who worked undercover didn’t always surface alive.

He ate his food, tried Ezra again, got the same message, and didn’t like that one bit. He went to the window and looked out. The rain was still falling, quietly now, drops beading on the glass, gathering and sliding down like tears. He didn’t want to go out again, not beaten down with exhaustion like he was, but that itchy feeling between his shoulder blades wasn’t going to let him sit around waiting to hear from Standish.

He buckled on his Sig, tucked an extra magazine in his shirt pocket. He put on his scarred leather jacket and ghosted into the night.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The meeting was held in the fifteenth floor conference room rather than A.D. Travis’s office. By the time Chris arrived, most of the chairs around the long oak conference table were filled. He recognized the SAC’s from the FBI, Treasury, a captain from the DPD, the other agents from Williams’s team. Buck and JD were sitting mid-table, a chair between them saved for Chris; determined guardians, even JD, who was so pale that his freckles stood out on his skin like they’d been spangled on by a paintbrush.

Chris angled his way into the seat. “Thanks.”

“If this show don’t start soon, I’m gonna complain to the management,” Buck drawled. The flash of anger in his eyes took all humor from the comment.

Orrin’s secretary was passing around sheets of paper while her assistant set out pitchers of water and glasses at intervals along the table. What Chris wanted was coffee, hot, black, and thick. And it didn’t help that all government buildings were now smoke-free.

“Your agenda, Mr. Larabee.”

“What?” Chris looked up.

“Agenda?” She held out the paper.

An agenda, for God’s sake. What the hell did they need one for? Bitterness soured Chris’s throat, and for a moment he thought he would be sick. He felt Buck’s hand on his arm and shrugged it off. “I’m all right,” he said more sharply than he had intended. Buck raised a brow and settled back in his chair.

“Sure you are, pard.”

Chris was about to make a reply when the door opened. Orrin Travis and Pete Nicholson, the Treasury supervisor came into the room. Silence fell as they stood at the head of the table.

Nicholson spoke first. “As you are aware, we lost one of our finest agents today when Ed Williams was gunned down. His leadership and investigative skills will be sorely missed by our department. He was a friend as well as a damn good agent, and those of us who knew him well appreciated him for those qualities.” He seemed to focus on Chris, as if he expected him to make some protest. Chris didn’t blink.

“We must now turn our resources to finding his killer. I have requested and received the assurances of AD Travis that all files pertaining investigations involving Agent Williams will be turned over to the FBI. I will expect those reports on my desk within twenty-four hours. Sooner, if humanly possible, so that we may apprehend and punish the criminals responsible for Agent Williams’s death.”

There was a general nodding of heads. Not Chris’s, not JD’s or Buck’s. Chris looked down at the agenda in his hands. Opening remarks had been given. The next item was status reports, and Chris felt a shiver of apprehension. Of all agents gathered, Team Seven had the most to lose by revealing the details of their investigation – and killing the sacred cow at the same time. If they let on that Williams had been the focus of their own investigation, they’d be dead right along with him. Career suicide.

He felt JD fidgeting next to him, nothing visible from the waist up, but a nervous jiggling of his right thigh that communicated itself clear through the wood. Chris knew how he felt; years of experience holding him physically still while the tremors were all internal. JD’s way was undoubtedly healthier. But his was the way things had to be.

The status reports started with the Treasury since Williams was their agent. As he listened, Chris felt his anger rising. He’d heard whitewashes before; he hated them, occasionally understood them, admitted the need for them. Maybe this was true in Ed Williams’s case, but he had two agents – two friends – who were in danger because Ed Williams had turned his back on the oath he had taken, the same oath Chris held sacred and swore to defend with his life. He couldn’t accept the cover-up.

He moved uneasily, felt the weight of Buck’s study on him and the brush of his elbow, a warning to rein in his temper. Chris sat back and listened to Pete Nicholson’s statement.

“Agent Williams was involved in a deep cover investigation of money laundering operations in Denver. We believe that was the primary motive behind his murder. The criminal element he was investigating has a record of ruthless reprisals against informants and undercover agents. We will be looking very closely at his ongoing files in our investigation. All we know for certain at this time, is that Agent Williams received a call from an informant, went to meet that informant, and was gunned down. We are working to identify and question this person.”

Nicholson looked to the SAC from the FBI who rose to continue the reports. Tom Wilks was brief, to the point. The FBI would open the files they maintained on informants and mob-related criminal activities. They were as anxious as every other agency to find the person who had murdered Agent Williams.

Then all eyes turned to Chris. His throat hurt. He took a swallow of water. He rose slowly. He looked at Orrin Travis, at Pete Nicholson. Travis was looking at him, grey eyes unreadable, but his posture so still that Chris could sense the tension. Nicholson, too, was watching him warily. He knew *something*. Maybe that Williams wasn’t as lily white as he was being painted. Or maybe he was afraid that Chris had been investigating on the side, and was going to tear down the dead agent’s reputation.

There were a number of paths Chris could take: the low road, or the easy way. He could have politely skirted the issue of his files, the way the FBI team leader had, or he could follow his own instincts, consequences be damned – and there would be consequences – if only Orrin tearing into him for not being a “team” player. He *was* a team player ... but the team was his.

Chris cleared his throat. “I have no status report to give at this time.” That was it. Let them make of it what they would. He sat down, heard Buck breathe a chuff of admiration, and imagined that JD’s eyes were wide as saucers. Judging from the faces around the table, he hadn’t made any friends and had probably destroyed a lot of mutual trust between the various departments. But he couldn’t risk Ezra and Vin. If D’Amico had been willing to eliminate Ed Williams when he had outlived his usefulness, then Vin and Ezra were on the bubble of a highly volatile situation. Chris refused to be the match to that fuse.

Orrin rose, obviously furious at Chris but working hard to disguise it. “That will conclude this meeting. Keep me informed of any developments. Agent Larabee, a moment of your time, if you please.”

“Ain’t no ‘please’ about it,” Buck whispered. “Good luck, ol’ pard.”

Chris gave him a wry smile. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Well, I always said ya got more balls than sense. See you downstairs?”

“If I’m not handing in my badge and gun.”

JD heard the tail end of that exchange and gasped, “You wouldn’t ... I mean, he can’t ...” He shoved a hank of black hair off his forehead, shaken by the thought that Orrin Travis could, and very well might, suspend Chris Larabee.

“Go with Buck, JD. I’ll be all right.” God, he wished JD didn’t have to see the tarnish on so many badges. The young agent was so much in love with the job, so single-minded and loyal, so determined to uphold the highest standards, that it had to hurt to witness so many betrayals. Thank God Buck was there. Thank God that Josiah and Nathan were at his back. That Vin and Ezra were out there like lights in the darkness. It never occurred to Chris that he was the gold standard in JD’s eyes.

He watched the others file out of the room, some giving him venomous looks, others stony, emotionless glances, or sliding away as if they were ashamed of being in the same room and could hardly wait to escape the taint of his presence. When the door had closed behind the last man, Chris turned back to Orrin Travis. “Sir?” His voice was formal and pitched low, reluctant; he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Travis on any level, as a superior or as a friend, but the decision had been made and he wasn’t going to back down without a fight.

 

Travis rounded on him. “Goddamnit, Chris! What sort of game are you playing here? Refusing to turn over your files! How the hell am I supposed to explain that?”

“I never said I was refusing to turn over my files. I just said I had no status report.”

“A fine distinction.” Acid etched Travis’s voice. “Will you turn over your files?”

“No.”

Travis closed his eyes. “Our friendship is no defense in this matter, Agent Larabee.”

“I never presumed that it was.”

“Then why?” Travis leaned towards him, as if the force of his presence could make Larabee yield. “Give me something to work with here, Chris,” Travis beseeched. “I have a dead agent, a killer on the streets, the entire Department of Justice out for revenge –”

Chris passed a hand over his forehead. His eyes fell on a manila folder on the table. JD’s file on Williams. As much as he hated using it as a bargaining chip, he had no choice. He was up against a stone wall and couldn’t risk suspension. He took a breath and a leap of faith. “Give me twenty-four hours.”

“You can’t obstruct a criminal investigation!”

“I *need* twenty-four hours, Orrin. I’ve got to get Vin and Ezra out of Troy D’Amico’s sphere of influence. I don’t want to find their bodies in an alley.”

Travis pounced on that oblique bit of information. “D’Amico killed Williams?”

“Most likely it was Ronnie Fazio doing the shooting.” Chris picked up the file and shoved it towards Travis. “It’s all in here, Orrin. I was going to give it to you – but then we got the call about Williams, and everything went to hell. Read it. Maybe you’ll understand why I couldn’t give a status report. Maybe it will be worth those twenty-four hours.” He rose, his body swaying slightly. “It’s not a lot to ask, Orrin. Not for Vin and Ezra.”

Travis pursed his lips. He considered the file. He looked up at Larabee. Those haunted, weary green eyes tore into Travis. He sighed, surrendered. “Give me an hour to read this. I’ll get back to you tonight. Meanwhile, get something to eat before you pass out on my floor, son.”

Chris smiled slightly. “Thank you.”

“You put up a hell of a fight, Chris.”

He nodded. “I choose ‘em carefully nowadays. I didn’t want to fight you on this one, but I had to. I just hoped you’d understand.” He held out his hand, felt Travis’s strong, knotted fingers tighten over his. It was reassuring to know that something had been salvaged out of this long and ugly day.

He went down to his office. He stood in the doorway, moved beyond telling to see Nathan and Josiah still holding the fort. “Get something to eat, he ordered. “We have an hour before anything happens.” He told Buck to field all calls, and not wake him unless it was Travis or Vin. He took a Tylenol and an antacid, and stretched out on his couch. It had been a toss-up between food and rest, and rest won out because he was too tired to eat. It was the soundest he’d slept in days. He didn’t even hear Buck come in to check on him, or feel the soft drift of the blanket that was settled over legs.

It seemed only a few minutes had passed when Nathan shook him awake, but his watched showed that he had been sleeping for an hour. He sat up, rubbed his eyes. “What?”

“Travis is on line one. You up to talking to him, or should I take a message?”

“No. I’m fine. Give me two seconds, okay?”

“Sure.”

Chris stumbled over to his desk and grabbed the phone. “Orrin?”

“You’ve got your twenty-four hours.”

“Thanks, Orrin.” Travis hung up, and Chris set the receiver back on the cradle. He laid his head down on his desk. Twenty-four hours. God, he could have slept for twelve of them, easy, then rolled over and slept for the other twelve. Wasn’t gonna happen.

He pushed his intercom. “Buck, get me the strongest, hottest cup of coffee in the house, and get some for the rest of us while you’re at it. We’re gonna be here for a while.” He pushed the speed dial to Vin’s cell phone and was switched over to voice mail. “Vin, call me. Stat.” He tried Ezra next, with the same result, and left the same message. He didn’t like the feeling of unease that was starting to shiver down his spine. He went into the outer office. “Josiah, you talk to Vin?”

“Yes. He was fine. Asked if you were fine, too.”

“Did he say anything about going out, meeting Ezra?”

“Nope. Said he was going to give Ezra a call. That’s it.”

Vin could be picking up dinner at Taco Bell. Ezra could be sitting in one of his fancy restaurants, sipping champagne and eating caviar. *Could* be. But Chris didn’t think so, not with his internal alarms clamoring. He grabbed a cup of coffee from Buck’s hands. “C’mon, cowboy. We’re payin’ Angel Ramirez a little visit. Nate, keep working on what we have. JD, you know what to do. Use your imagination, find out what’s happening in town, if any big shots are paying us a visit. D’Amico wanted Vin to shoot a particular target. I want to know who it might be. Josiah, if you can, talk to Pete Nicholson. He likes you, right?”

“As far as I know I haven’t done anything to antagonize him.”

“Try to keep it that way,” Chris said. He took a sip of coffee, felt the heat and caffeine jolt through him and drank the rest, even though it scoured his throat. “Let’s ride, Buck.”

“Why are we going to Angel’s?” Buck asked when they were in the Ram.

“Because that’s the last place Williams was seen alive, the last place we know Ronnie Fazio frequented. And it’s in Purgatorio. We have a better chance of picking up Vin’s trail there ... wherever the hell he is.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

That was all it was, a plan. *Jesus, Vin. Where are you?* Chris wheeled the Ram through a yellow light and around a corner. Vin’s building loomed just ahead of them. Chris pulled up to the front. “I’m just gonna take a look around.”

“You want me with you?”

“Naw. Leg it over to Angel’s. I’ll be there in a few.” He was out the door of the Ram and running up the stairs, grateful that the landlord never had installed automatic locks. He knocked once on Vin’s door, then pulled out his keys. Vin had given him a set for emergencies and they’d received more use than Chris liked to think about.

The apartment was quiet. No signs of a disturbance, which meant that Vin had probably left on his own. He prowled through the rooms, seeing nothing out of place. He picked up Vin’s phone. The stuttering beeps of the dial tone told him there was a message waiting. Chris punched in the code and listened. “Mr. Tanner, I fear we may have forgotten a meeting with Mr. D’Amico. I have been ever so gently reminded of it. Come to D’Amico’s offices as soon a possible. We’ll leave the light on for you.” Ezra’s voice was strained, the words as clipped as his drawl permitted. Ezra was in trouble and Vin had never received the message.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra’s condo was dark and his car was parked safely in the garage. Two facts which did nothing to ease Vin’s apprehension as he retrieved the key from the garage overhang. Still, he chided himself for his nerves, certain that he was about to make a fool of himself by busting into Ezra’s house only to find Standish sound asleep. Or worse, not alone. Ezra’d skin him alive in either case.

He bent and slid the Sig from his ankle holster. He fit the key in the door. He didn’t have to turn it. His heart thumped. The door swung open silently. Fitful moonlight filtered through the windows at the front of the room, sending shadows rippling across the floor; deceptive movements that made Vin’s finger twitch on the trigger. “Ezra?” he hissed softly. “Hey, Ez?”

The sigh of the wind through the bushes outside mocked him.

Soft-footed, he went up the stairs. Halfway up, he paused. A scent, not Ezra’s cologne, just the faintest tang of something foreign and raw; the reek of sweat and violence. There was a sound behind him on the stairs. Before it could register as something more than a flicker in his conscious mind, a heavy blow to the base of his skull drove him to his knees and he fell, slipping down six steps, coming to rest in a heap at the foot of the staircase. He didn’t move, scarcely seemed to breathe. Satisfied, his assailant shoved him over to his back with a hard kick, then left.

Vin lay there, sick and stunned, unable to move and afraid that if he did, he’d feel a tearing pain that would mean a lot more damage had been done to him than his body could bear. But when the pain faded to a dull throb and his head and stomach stopped rebelling in concert, he clawed himself upright until he was sitting on the lowest step and holding the turned spindle of the banister for support. He fumbled for his cell phone. His vision was blurry, but he knew which number pad would summon Chris and he pushed it, waiting for that voice that would anchor him to a quickly fading reality.

“Larabee –” A crisp snap of a greeting.

“C-Chris...”

“Vin? Jesus, where are you? Did you pick up Ezra’s message?”

“’M’at Ezra’s place ... Chris ... need ya. Hurry. Ezra’s g-gone ...” He slumped forward, his phone sliding from his hand. He heard Chris’s frantic voice fading like somebody was turning the volume down on a TV. Then the picture dulled to black, and he knew nothing more.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris locked up Vin’s apartment and loped down the stairs, unwilling to risk the elevator. He wasn’t surprised to see that Buck was still parked out front. He yanked the door open and hauled himself into the unfamiliar passenger seat. “Told you to get to Angel’s.”

“And I figured it wouldn’t make much sense leaving you walkin’.”

That wasn’t the reason, but Chris nodded in agreement, grateful for his oldest friend’s concern. “Thanks.”

“Hell, might as well save yer achin’ bones some wear and tear.”

Chris gave a soft snort. “Drive.”

Buck put his foot to the accelerator and the Ram lurched forward like it had been goaded with a prod. “Whoa! Ya got enough horsepower here, pard?”

Chris laughed. “Ya got a heavy foot, Buck.” He grinned, feeling the old camaraderie kick in as it always did – the lift that came from having Buck fighting with him. Bracing himself for the rocket ride, he was unprepared for the shrill chime of his cell phone. It took a moment for him to fumble it open.

“Larabee –” And then an abrupt, indrawn breath. “Vin? Jesus, where are you? Did you pick up Ezra’s message?”

There was a pause, and then a quiet cry. “Vin!” He turned to Buck, his eyes wide. “Get over to Ezra’s ... Vin’s in trouble.”

Buck opened the console and took out the flasher that Chris kept there. They tore through the streets towards Ezra’s condo, neither man speaking, but both minds on their teamate whose voice had faded and whose life might be bleeding out even as they tried to reach him.

The drive nagged at Chris; achingly slow despite Buck’s smooth handling of the Ram. His fingers itched to take control, but to change places would only slow them down. He clung to the edge of the seat, leaning forward against the restraining seat belt, his green eyes focused on the road as if that could make the truck cover ground faster.

“Vin’s jeep!”

Buck wheeled the Ram alongside the jeep and both he and Chris were out at the same time, their weapons drawn as one as they covered the ground between curb and front stoop. Buck set his shoulder to the door, shoved, and nearly fell inside as it swung open. As he stumbled, Chris pushed through. “Vin!”

Darkness. Chris stopped short. Vin’s crumpled body was on the steps leading to the second floor. “Buck – call 911!” He went down on a knee, pushed aside the veiled tangle of long hair. His seeking fingers found a pulse beneath the warm skin, and he did a quick exploration of ribs, arms, back. Nothing, He probed Tanner’s skull beneath his hair and found the hard knot and a clump of hair sticky with blood from an abrasion where he’d been hit. *God, don’t let it be a fracture,* he prayed. He tapped Vin’s cheek lightly. “Partner, can you hear me? C’mon, Vin. Wake up. Ya gotta wake up.”

No response. Chris raised one eyelid, caught the crescent rim of blue. He bent forward. Vin’s respiration was steady and slow. “C’mon ...”

Buck knelt beside him. “Paramedics are on the way.” He touched Vin’s cheek. “How is he?”

“Out cold. He’s got a knot on his head like a golf ball. I’m hoping it’s not a fracture.”

“Musta been quite a blow. Junior’s got a pretty hard head.” Buck sighed. “No sign of Ezra.”

“Vin said he was gone ...”

“Gone?”

Chris nodded. “Gone. Taken –”

“D’Amico?”

“That’s my guess.” Chris rubbed his forehead. “God ... this should have been so simple!”

“Yeah, right.” Buck stood up as he heard the sound of sirens. “I’ll watch for the ambulance.”

Chris took his jacket off and laid it over Vin. He looked uncomfortable lying in that awkward position on the steps, but until the paramedics came with a backboard and cervical collar, he shouldn’t be moved. He just kept his hand on Vin’s head, careful and gentle, praying without any real faith that his prayers were being heard.

Vin started coming around just as the paramedics arrived. He groaned and stirred, opened a bleary eye. “C-Chris...?”

“Shh, easy there, partner. Ya gotta be still. The paramedics are on the way.”

“’M’alright.”

Chris restrained him with a firm hand. “You’re not. You let them check you out, take you to the ER for a CT scan.”

“Gotta find Ez ...”

“You leave that up to Buck and the boys, okay? Just lie still, y’hear?”

A resigned sigh. “I’m okay ... jist got hit on the head.” He swallowed hard. “Listen, Chris. Got a feelin’ that D’Amico took Ez ... maybe t’his office, maybe not. We gotta find him.”

“I know. We’ll figure something out.” Chris squeezed his shoulder. “Let’s make sure you’re okay, first.” He moved aside as the paramedics came through the door. He gave them a quick rundown on what he had found. They put a cervical collar on Vin, strapped him to a backboard, and loaded him in the ambulance. He looked very slight, wrapped in blankets, and obviously uneasy, surrounded by strangers and confined. Chris knew how hard that was for him, how he struggled against panic and fear. His eyes locked with the Texan’s, willing him to stay calm. Telling him that he was all right, and not alone.

Buck set a hand on his shoulder. “You gonna ride with him?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll call JD, have him meet us at the hospital. What about Ezra?”

Chris gave Buck a look that made him shiver. “We wait. D’Amico wants something from us. He isn’t going to hurt Ezra without telling us what that is. He needs a bargaining chip.” He saw Buck’s expression; part dismay, part anger. Suddenly it all seemed too much: the pain in his head, the burn in the pit of his stomach, the burden of responsibility. He snapped, the Larabee temper in full fire. “You tell me what to do, Buck! You make the decisions here – tell me who comes first – Vin or Ezra. You make that call if you don’t like what I’m doing. I’m going with Vin.” Before Buck could respond, he swung into the front seat of the ambulance, leaving the medic to ride in the back with Vin.

Buck cursed and climbed into the Ram. There was no reasoning with Chris when his temper was running his logic. By the time they reached the hospital, he’d have cooled down enough for Buck to talk to him. Buck didn’t envy Chris his job at all. How did you make those decisions? To leave Ezra to D’Amico, to get Vin to the hospital, to wait, to charge in with guns blazing? Nope, there were no easy answers to those questions. He sure as hell didn’t like the idea of Ezra in D’Amico’s clutches, but Chris had a point in his argument. A damaged bargaining chip wasn’t worth much, and Ezra alive and in one piece was infinitely more valuable to both parties. Sickening but inescapable logic.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris was with Vin when Buck made his way to the ER. The doctors were doing a CT scan, and Buck, knowing Vin’s claustrophobia would make it nearly impossible for the sharpshooter to endure the test, figured Chris would stick with him while he could. Buck slumped in the chairs, wondering how long it would be this time. Vin had seemed in pretty good shape, so maybe it would be quick. *Damn, Junior ...* Buck sighed and settled deeper in the chair.

JD arrived a few minutes later, worried and pale. “What’s going on, Buck? How’s Vin? Where’s Ezra? Why isn’t Chris here?”

“Easy, kid. Vin’s gettin’ a CT scan ‘cause he got a real good bump on the head. Chris is back with him, makin’ sure he’s okay.”

“Ezra?”

Buck shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Whaddya mean, ya don’t know?” JD’s voice cracked.

“Listen, we think D’Amico has him. We’re pretty sure he’s all right –”

“Aw, shit!” JD sank down on the chair next to Buck. “How’d this get so fucked up?”

“Long story, kid. Remind me t’tell you sometime.” He thrust his fingers through his dark hair. JD’s shoulder brushed against his as he leaned forward, mirroring Buck’s posture. They were still sitting like that when Chris came through the doors.

Buck looked up first, seeing the exhaustion etched in Chris’s face, but also the relief. “What’s the word?”

“No skull fracture. A concussion, took a few stitches to close the gash on his head. Bruised ribs from an apparent fall down the stairs. No further damage to his liver. He’ll be here overnight so they can keep an eye on him.”

Chris passed a shaking hand over his eyes, swaying a bit as his fatigue and relief washed over him in a wave. Buck was up and at his side quickly. “Old pard, ya better sit down b’fore ya fall down.”

Chris warded Buck off with a flat hand. “I’m fine.” He didn’t look it. His face was paste-pale, eyes dark-circled and weary. The tremor in his hand wasn’t a good sign, nor was the way he was pressing his other hand across his stomach.

“When was the last time you talked to Rain about that ulcer of yours?”

“Don’t have an ulcer.”

Buck snorted. “Yeah, ya do. Remember that damned hole in yer belly? Put ya in the hospital ‘bout three years ago? Well, it’s back – and if it ain’t – it will be real soon.” He fixed Chris with a steely gaze. “Sit down.”

Too tired to argue, he did. Sat and felt the pain burning in his gut, throbbing in his head. This job that he thought of as his life, was killing him. Or maybe it wasn’t the job, maybe it was that long-haired sharpshooter lying on a gurney in the ER, or the wily, exasperating undercover agent who was risking his life to bring down Troy D’Amico. Maybe it was his own responsibility for his team; for the life of his best friend, for the young man who made computers do magic things, for the quiet, philosophical profiler, and the former army medic whose patience and care had saved them all one time or another.

They might kill him, but they would never abandon him.

“Chris?” He looked up. Rain was crouched in front of him. “C’mon back with me. You need to see a doctor.”

He blinked at her. “I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not. You didn’t even notice Buck bringing me out here, did you?” she scolded gently. She stood up, taking hold of his upper arm and pulling him to his feet. “This won’t take long, I promise.”

“Rain, not tonight.”

“Yes! Do the words bleeding ulcer mean anything to you?” She put her hands on her hips. “Nathan is on his way over.”

At that, Chris gave up the fight. “You have something that will help without putting me in the hospital?”

“Maybe.”

He followed her back to a treatment room. She left him there and returned a short time later with a short, slender Chinese doctor in tow. “Chris, this is Dr. Richard Wong. He’s a gastroenterologist on staff here. He’s going to examine you.”

Chris gave her a warning glare, angry at her interference. She returned the look, nodded to Dr. Wong, and left. Wong studied Chris. Chris studied Wong.

“Lie down,” the doctor said quietly. His voice held a hint of a British accent, surprising Chris into compliance. He did a quick, gentle examination of Chris’s abdomen, uttering all the doctorly noises that set Chris’s teeth on edge. When he had finished, and Chris was sitting upright on the exam table, he crossed his arms and frowned at the him. “You ought to have a complete GI series, soon.”

“But not tonight,” Chris’s eyes narrowed, daring the doctor to order it.

“No. I suspect you’ve got an incipient ulcer, but you don’t seem to be bleeding from it. You’ll get a dose of what I call the house specialty. It’ll cool things down, ease some of the pain so you can eat and sleep. I’ll give you a prescription for some medicine, but I’m warning you – don’t ignore the symptoms. This is a serious condition, but it is treatable.”

Chris buttoned his shirt. “I’ll call.”

Wong smiled. “You’d better. Dr. Jackson doesn’t seem to be the sort of woman who allows her friends to neglect their health.” He shook Chris’s hand and left.

Chris slid off the table and went into the hall. He inquired at the Nurses’ station about Vin, and was told Agent Tanner had been taken upstairs to Room 611. As soon as they came with the promised medicine, he’d have a talk with Vin. He’d been pretty woozy, but was maybe more sensible now. Chris wanted a lead on Ezra and hoped Vin had a few more thoughts on his whereabouts. He couldn’t let it go, not even for his own health.

Rain came in with a small amount of a milky green liquid in a cup. Chris eyed it suspiciously and sniffed. The scent of wintergreen barely disguised the medicinal aroma. “What is it?” he asked.

“Maalox, Donnatal, and lidocaine. Now you know as much as you did before. Drink it.”

He grimaced, gagged it down, and felt the cool, thick liquid coating his esophagus and stomach. The pain stopped within minutes. Rain had watched him drink it, and held out her hand for the empty cup. She reached in her pocket. “Dr. Wong wrote a prescription for Prevacid. It will keep the acid level down until you can come in for a complete work-up. As your regular doctor, I will be making sure that you make that appointment.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tucked the paper in his pocket. “Now can I see Vin?”

Suddenly gentle, Rain touched his arm. “Sure. He’s fine, Chris. And when I say it, you can believe me.”

Chris grinned. “Room 611, right?”

“Yes. Now, go. We need this room for sick people.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

 

His head hurt. His ribs ached, and his stomach was churning with nausea. When he opened his eyes the room tended to spin around, so he kept them shut and hoped that at least one of the symptoms would subside. He had to get out of here. He might be a bit hazy on a few details but he knew that Ezra was in trouble, and he knew who was behind it. Chris had said something about a message, hadn’t he?

Vin struggled to sit up despite the pain from his bruised ribs. He’d been lucky to have suffered nothing more serious than pulled muscles and aching bones. And a concussion. Again. Lord, Troy Aikman had nothing on him when it came to that department. But he’d worked through them before, and he’d survive this one.

Determined, he fumbled for the button on the bedrail that would raise him to a more upright position. He pushed it and the mechanism made a low whine and a grinding sound that didn’t inspire much confidence in the equipment his health insurance was supposed to be paying for. Figured.

Once he was semi-vertical, he risked opening his eyes. So far, so good. The room spun slowly, but not as dizzying as it had been an hour ago. He squinted against the glare from the overhead light. It stabbed behind his eyes like a knife so he closed them and lay back. Wasn’t good. Nope, not at all.

Maybe if he rested for a few more minutes, he could try again. A few minutes passed and then another few. He drifted, his eyes closed. Not sleeping, because they’d come and wake him in a few minutes just to make sure his head injury wasn’t serious enough to send him into a coma. As soon as they checked on him, he’d try again.

Despite his intentions, he dozed.

He was aware of the door opening, a drift of air from the corridor. “I’m awake,” he said. “Y’c’n go bother somebody else.”

“Ain’t nobody else to bother,” Chris said, faint humor in his voice. “You mind talkin’ to me?”

Vin opened his eyes cautiously. Better. He pushed himself up farther on the pillows, wincing at his sore ribs. “You hear from Ezra?”

“No. He left a message on your phone, Vin. He said D’Amico had picked him up. He wanted you to meet him at D’Amico’s office.”

Vin’s eyes opened wider. “You send somebody over there?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet! Jesus, Chris! Ya gotta git Ez outta there –”

Chris looked down at the floor.” I can’t. If we rush in there now to close D’Amico down, we have nothing that will hold up in court. We have all these bits of information and nothing to link them together but you and Ezra. We’ve got to see this through to the end or we’ll lose it.”

He sounded cold, controlled, but Vin could see beyond the words to the agony that Chris was battling. He studied Larabee’s face, saw pain there, exhaustion, the dogged determination and anger that burned in him, that burned through him.

“What about Ezra?”

Chris’s gaze came up to meet his. “D’Amico doesn’t really want Ezra. He wants you. He *needs* you. Ezra is just the means to the end.”

Vin considered for a moment. His head tipped back against the pillows. “I’ll be outta here tomorrow. Got a feelin’ D’Amico’s gonna want t’talk to me.”

“You think?” Chris mused.

Vin gave a weak chuff of laughter. “Troy ain’t stupid. He’s been usin’ me and Ezra all along. Been usin’ all of us one way or another.”

Chris’s jaw tightened into a angle as hard as the blade of an axe. “It stops now.” He rose restlessly. Paced a bit, feeling the weight of Vin’s gaze on his back. “You got something you want to say?”

“Ain’t no use yer wearing a hole in yer stomach over this.”

Chris turned shot him a glare. “I’m fine.”

Vin just snorted derisively. “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with my eyes, cowboy.” He tilted his head, appraised him. “Don’t kill yerself, Chris. There’s ‘nough bastards out there t’do that for ya.”

Humor lightened the darkness in Larabee’s eyes. “Reckon you’re right about that, partner.” He sat back down in the chair at the beside. “You want me to stay for a while?”

“Hell, no. If I’m gonna git waked up every hour, it’s gonna be by that pretty nurse, Sue. Not by yer mug.” He smiled. “’Sides, you need t’rest, regroup. It’s gonna be a long day t’morrow.” Resolutely, he closed his eyes. Heard Chris get out of the chair and stand at the bedside. Felt the light touch on his shoulder and made a determined effort not to show that he had. But the warmth remained, and he was grateful for it.

Chris looked down at Tanner’s pale face. There was a bruise starting on his cheekbone. A sore head and sore ribs; it could have been so much worse. Chris sighed softly. This job was gonna kill him, yet. But not tonight. Tomorrow, he wasn’t so sure about.

He closed the door and took the elevator down to the emergency room where the others were waiting, including Nathan, holding a small white bag from the pharmacy. He handed it to Chris, frowning. “You’re gonna take this, right?”

“You’ve been talking to Rain.”

Nathan laughed. “The lady is my wife. Of course, I talk to her.”

“What happened to confidentiality?” Chris scowled.

“It don’t take a genius to figure out why you need Prevacid.” Nathan was capable of intimidation, but not this time. His dark eyes were soft with concern. “How’s Vin?”

“Good. He’ll be out in the morning. Slight concussion, bruised ribs. D’Amico didn’t want him hurt so badly that he was of no use.”

“Ezra?”

“Vin thinks D’Amico has him safe.”

Buck heard that and joined them. “He *thinks* Ezra’s safe? And if he ain’t?”

“We all take the risks, Buck. Hell, Ezra knows that better than any of us.”

“It don’t make it any easier when some goon’s beatin’ on ya.”

“What do you want me to do, Buck? We go busting in there and Ezra’s as good as dead. We wait to see what D’Amico wants from Vin – maybe we have a chance. That’s all we can do until tomorrow.” His voice was raspy and taut with frustration.

Buck backed off, aching for his friend. He laid an arm around his shoulder. “C’mon. Y’ain’t wore your welcome out with me and JD yet.” He caught Nathan’s nod of gratitude. Hell, he’d’ve offered that if Chris had been drunk and half out of his mind. He’d done that before, too.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Later, Chris sat on the edge of the bed in Buck’s spare room and watched the moonlight make a slow progress across the floor. He *should* sleep. He was exhausted – he felt it in his blood like a drug – but sleep stubbornly eluded him. At least the “cocktail” he’d drunk at the hospital was still soothing his irritated stomach and the pill he’d taken ought to keep the acid at a manageable level. Small mercy when his thoughts were chasing around his skull like greyhounds after a rabbit.

He pulled off his shirt, felt the night air whisper across his skin. Toed off his boots, stripped down to boxers and stretched out on the bed, the sheets cool and smooth beneath his tired body. He wanted a drink. Pushed that thought out of his mind, knowing that indulging in it would only cause more pain. He closed his eyes resolutely. Sleep. The morning would come soon enough. Or maybe not.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

At Mercy Hospital, Vin was waiting for the nurse to come in and check to see if he was still conscious. He didn’t want to drift off only to be startled awake; didn’t want to harm anybody with a reflexive action he couldn’t control. Wasn’t like he felt much like sleeping anyways. His mind was riled up six ways from Sunday.

There was a soft knock on the door. Time for Nurse Sue to appear. Vin shook his head. Didn’t know why they bothered. If he was supposed to sleep, it would wake him, and if he was unconscious, he wouldn’t hear it. “I’m good,” he said, half-hoping that would send the Sue on her way to tend to patients who needed her.

Didn’t work. She came into the room and stood at his bedside. “That’s not what I hear,” she said. “I hear you like to cause all sorts of trouble; sneaking out of bed, not asking for pain medications when you need them, making all the nurses fight over who gets to deal with you ...”

“You won, right?”

She grinned at him. “I lost.” But she had pretty eyes that smiled into his as she took his wrist in her fingers. “Hmm, according to this, you should be dead.”

“Fergot t’tell you. The ul-ulnar pulse works better.”

He looked at her uncertainly, and she nodded and repositioned her fingers. “Ah, there it is.” She wrote something down on his chart. “You must have been in a lot of hospitals to know that.”

“Been in enough.”

Blood pressure next, and he squirmed a bit as the cuff tightened around his arm. “Did I hurt you?” she frowned.

“No, ma’am. Jist never liked those things.”

She fiddled with the IV tubing, checking the line. “Don’t call me ma’am. My mother is a ma’am. Sue works just fine.” She pushed a few buttons on the pump. “There, I think you’re done. If you can think of anything I can get for you, just push the call button.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“That’s what they all say.” She patted his shoulder gently. “You *can* sleep, you know. You’ve been coherent now for several hours. I won’t need to check again for a while.”

Vin gave her a brief nod. “I’ll try it. Thanks.” He settled back and closed his eyes as obediently as a child trying to fake out a watching parent. Sue dimmed the light overhead and went to continue her rounds.

Exhaustion and medications finally kicked in and despite his resolve, Vin felt himself spinning slowly into sleep, drawn deeper with every breath. His last hazy thought was of Ezra; a half-prayer that his assessment of Standish’s value to D’Amico was right, and that he was enduring nothing more uncomfortable than a lumpy mattress.

When Sue checked on him a while later, he was curled on his side, a tangle of brown hair spread across the pillow and his face. Carefully, she brushed the strands aside and tested his temperature. Cool. Respiration deep and even. Pulse regular and strong.

He stirred, breath indrawn. “It’s all right,” she said. “Just checking.” His sleep-blurred eyes opened briefly, then closed, dark lashes fanned on his cheeks. She stroked a gentle hand over his hair. *Men*, she thought, with a wry smile. They believed they were so tough.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Trapped. Lord, how witless could he be? Ezra stared at the ceiling overhead. He stretched, feeling bruises on his still aching abdomen that matched the one on his jaw. His own stupid fault for attempting to dissuade Ronnie Fazio from strong-arming him into his car.

He turned his head on the pillow. It could be worse, he thought. He’d been incarcerated in less sanguine quarters than this. A tad small, but clean. Glass block windows high on the walls, industrial carpeting underfoot. There were lower-level executives laboring in cubicles that would consider this luxury.

He was lying on a collapsible cot, a bit low, but fairly comfortable. Not like his pillow-top mattress at home – so few were. Dinner had been a microwaved dinner from the supermarket. A chilled bottle of chardonnay would have made it more edible. At that, Ezra laughed silently at his own pretensions. He would consider this as he would a trip to an ATF convention – a duty to be done; nothing more, nothing less. And certainly not one where he expected pampering.

With a soft, inelegant snort, he turned on his side, wincing at the pressure on his ribs. There was the sound of a key in the door lock, and Ezra sat up, his hand going towards his ankle. Like there was something there ... his hand slipped away. The door opened and Carlo, one of D’Amico’s “assistants” entered, gun drawn.

“C’mon.” He motioned with the gun.

“Might I ask where?”

“Mr. D’Amico doesn’t want you to piss in those expensive pants of yours.”

“How kind,” Ezra drawled. “I wouldn’t think of such a thing, though the thought of urinating on his walls has some sort of appeal.” Carlo stared at him. “And here I thought bathroom humor would have been right up your alley.” He stood up slowly, his hands held raised and open. “Lead on.”

Carlo nodded at the door. “Guests first.”

“My, my. Such lovely manners. I can see that I have misjudged you.” A hard thump on his backbone made him stumble. “However, your people skills could use some polishing.”

“I could just tie you down and let you stew in your own stink.”

Ezra didn’t doubt that he would. He was marched down the hall to a bathroom, still windowless. His best guess was that he was still in the office building, perhaps on a lower floor where D’Amico’s underlings slaved away making his illicit millions. He used the facilities, washed up, ran damp fingers through his hair. His reflection in the mirror was washed out and pale, not entirely due to the fluorescent light fixtures. He tried to rearrange his anxious features into an expression of nonchalance.

He looked around for something to use as a weapon. Nothing. Electric hand-dryers, the toilet paper holders were bolted to the sides of the cubicles, and the rollers were inaccessible without some sort of key. Cost control. The soap containers were dry, which could be either unsanitary or cautious, and Ezra was willing to bet on cautious. He tapped on the mirror. Not glass. Highly polished steel like in prisons. Definitely cautious.

“You fall in?”

Ezra sighed. “Mother Nature can’t be rushed.”

“Ya need me to come in there and scare the shit outta you?”

“I assure you that will be unnecessary.” Ezra opened the door to find the gun trained on him. “As is that.” Carlo gave him another nudge with the gun and they walked back to the office. Ezra stepped inside. “Do they serve breakfast in this charming establishment?”

Carlo grinned. “If you’re still alive.” He closed the door and locked it.

Ezra sank back down on the mattress. That certainly had an ominous ring to it. Enough to keep him wide awake for a very long time. He couldn’t keep his mind from wandering in circles. Had Vin heard his message? Had he contacted Chris? Had he gone to the house? And if he had, what or who had been waiting for him? But then, if he hadn’t heard the message, he was undoubtedly sleeping the sleep of the blissfully ignorant. But surely he would have checked messages, and if he had ... Ezra firmly suppressed that turn of thought after chasing it for the third or fourth time. By then, the glass squares were showing a pale light that he imagined was dawn.

And he was still alive.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin woke to the same pale light; false dawn, not true sunrise. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Not dizzy, slight throb in his temples and behind his eyes, nothing to write home about. His ribs ached fiercely. A hot shower and some Tylenol would take care of that. Once he got out of here. Still too early to call Chris.

He lay back down. The bag of fluid hanging on the IV pump was nearly empty. From past experiences, he knew it would beep soon, and when the nurse came to replace it, maybe he could convince her that she could unhook him. He hated being tethered to the damn pole, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t drink water.

He watched the drip from the bag into the plastic chamber below it. Steady as his heartbeat. It seemed to take forever before the alarm sounded. Sue came in to silence the pump. When she reached to change the bag, Vin tugged on her sleeve.

“Think ya could free me up?” he asked.

“Are you planning a quick getaway?”

“Was kinda hopin’.”

“I’ll check with the doctor, but if he says you need another IV, you’ll have to put up with it.” She looked at him. “I’ll unhook you so you can move around for a few minutes, while I talk to him.”

Vin blushed at her tact. “I appreciate it.” He held on to his hospital gown, and to his dignity as he made his way to the bathroom. When Sue returned, he was back in bed, waiting. “Well, ya gonna hog-tie me again?”

“No.” She carefully pulled the tape from the back of his hand and removed the IV needle quickly and painlessly. “Try to get some more rest, though. It’s still very early.”

Vin settled back as she dimmed the lights. He wouldn’t sleep, but he would try to rest. At least until Chris showed up to spring him from this place. First thing he’d do was pay a call on Troy D’Amico.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris was already awake when Buck tapped softly on his door the next morning. He had spent the last hour and a half watching the digital minutes on the bedside radio advance. They wouldn’t let Vin out of the hospital until at least ten, and he was in no shape to go into the office, barring a summons from Orrin Travis or a state of national emergency. When he heard Buck, he sat up. “I’m awake,” he said.

“You want breakfast?”

He didn’t, but he could hear Rain’s cautions in his mind. “Yeah. I’ll be down.” He swung his legs out of bed and went into the guest bathroom across the hall. Showered and shaved, he felt better, but still queasy. His reflection in the mirror was little solace. Fine bones too stark beneath the skin, and his jeans were hanging loose. His belt was tightened two notches from where it had been ten days ago. Had been a while since that had happened without a conscious effort at diet and exercise.

He went down the wrought iron spiral staircase from the loft, lured to the kitchen by the seductive aroma of brewing coffee. Buck was frying ham in a skillet. JD was setting out boxes of cereal and bowls on the table. He gave Chris a glance from beneath his fringe of bangs. “Hey, Chris. How’re you doin’?”

“Better.” JD looked a little skittish over having to deal with him that early in the morning. “Easy, son. I’m just paying a visit,” he said, smiling at the blush rising on JD’s cheeks. The humor worked, and JD grinned back.

“You want cereal, Chris?”

“Coffee.” Buck turned from the stove and fixed Chris with a look. Chris gave him a deliberate glare, daring him to say something stupid. JD set a mug on the table, oblivious to the stand-off. Chris took a sip, still watching Buck. Wilmington rolled his eyes and turned back to his ham and eggs. Chris reached for a box of corn flakes, poured some in a bowl with milk, and, in deference to Rain, added a dollop of milk to his coffee to blunt the acid.

As the clock ticked to eight AM, Chris felt his nerves tighten in anticipation of *something.* He wasn’t quite sure what, but his instincts were gearing up for battle. At the hour, his cell phone rang.

JD jumped and Buck paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Chris swallowed and answered. “Larabee.”

“Agent Larabee.” The number on the display was Ezra’s, but the voice wasn’t.

“Who is this?”

“You wound my pride. We met at the Sportsmen’s Club – or perhaps I should say, we were both watching Agent Tanner display his talents.”

“Troy D’Amico.” *Shit. He’d been made and hadn’t even known.*

“Very good. How is Agent Tanner?”

Enormous anger swept through Chris. “Concussed, but alive. I would have thought you’d protect your interests in that regard.”

“That was ... regrettable. But I understand he is to be released later today.”

Chris cursed beneath his breath. Someone at Mercy Hospital was going to pay for providing *any* information on Vin to unauthorized parties. “I find it regrettable that he’s there at all, D’Amico. And I’m not a man you want to cross.”

“Threats, Agent Larabee? When I’ve got one of your men in my custody? I’d be very careful. Agent Standish is in a very precarious position.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“He is unharmed.”

“I want proof of life. I’m sure you’re familiar with that term.”

There was a pause, then Ezra’s voice, slightly breathless, but remarkably calm under the circumstances, came on the line. “Mr. Larabee, I am unharmed aside from being a bit stiff from sleeping on a less than satisfactory mattress.”

Chris closed his eyes. “You hang in there, Ez.”

“I assure you, I am going nowhere –”

The cut-off was abrupt, and D’Amico came back on the line. “Proof of life, Agent Larabee, as requested. Now, you do something for me or I’ll be sending you a proof of death. Do you understand?”

Sickened, Chris replied. “I understand.”

“Good. When Agent Tanner is released from the hospital, I want him to come to my offices. Alone. No wires, no taps, no tricks. You’re a smart man, you know what I mean.”

“What if he’s unable to comply? When I left him last night, he wasn’t exactly at a hundred percent,” Chris hedged.

“Unless he’s incapable of walking, he’d better be here. There will be consequences, if he is not.”

Dead air. Chris nearly threw the phone against the wall. JD was looking at him with wide eyes and Buck was standing at his shoulder. “What is it?” he asked.

“D’Amico has Ezra. He wants Vin for that job, whatever it is. If he’s not there today, D’Amico’s threatened to kill Ezra.”

Buck uttered a foul epithet. “Ya gonna tell Travis?”

Chris pushed away from the table. “No. You are. I’m going to get Vin and take him to D’Amico’s office. Don’t ask me what I’m going to do next, because I swear to God, I don’t know.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Freed from the hated IV line and still unable to spend the nervous energy that was about the only thing keeping him upright, Vin paced his hospital room. Ten meager steps from wall to wall, a turn, and ten more. He was wearing the clothes he had worn the day before; jeans, navy tee shirt, leather jacket. Fortunately, he had managed not to bleed on them for a change. His head still throbbed, but at least he was steady on his feet. The pacing had started as a test of his stability, and now was just a nervous habit.

Where the hell was Chris?

“Mr. Tanner!”

He halted mid-pace. Dr. Elizabeth Stone stood in his doorway, her brows drawn level in disapproval. “Hey, doc. You here t’spring me?” Hopefully, his blue eyes wide and innocent, as if that would fool her.

“You are incorrigible, you know that?”

“Don’t know about that, ma’am. But I am lookin’ forward to gettin’ out of here.”

She came into the room, his open chart in her arm. She frowned and read. “Admitted last night at 2100 with a concussion, abrasions and contusions, and a scalp laceration. Patient was unconscious upon arrival but soon recovered. Patient exhibited signs of confusion and agitation upon recovering consciousness. Disoriented state dissipated quickly and by 0100, Mr. Tanner was lucid and calm, at which time he was discharged from the ER and taken to a medical floor for overnight observation and continued IV hydration.”

“This is becoming the story of your life,” Elizabeth Stone sighed. “Don’t you know that repeated concussions are extremely serious injuries?”

“Hey, doc. It ain’t like I’m asking t’be hit over the head,” Vin objected. “Jist happens.”

“Well, stop it!” She came to his side. “And sit down so I can examine you.”

He did, and she took out her ophthalmoscope and looked into his eyes. “Good. Pupils are normal and equally reactive. Do you have any blurred vision, dizzy spells, nausea?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

Vin looked offended. “Yes, ma’am!”

She took his pulse and blood pressure. Then wrote on his chart, and sighed. “Well, there’s no reason to keep you here longer. You were lucky this time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You are the most aggravatingly polite patient I have ever had,” she smiled. “Please, Vin. Do us both a favor and be careful.”

“Cain’t wear a helmet every time I go out on a case, doc.”

She laughed. “Why not? You wear bulletproof vests, don’t you?” He grinned back, crooked and endearing, and she touched his shoulder lightly. “Take my advice, hmm?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sign here and you’re sprung, then.” She handed him the papers, and made an “X” on the signature line. She always did, aware of his dyslexia, and he gratefully scrawled his name and took his copy of the discharge orders. “Take it easy,” she warned, knowing that he wouldn’t.

She left with a swish of her white coat, and a faint fragrance that for a moment dispelled the hospital odor of disinfectant and filtered air. Vin tied his shoes, wincing as his bruised ribs were compressed. It was nearly nine, and there was still no sign or word from Chris. No telling when he would show up. Vin took out his wallet and counted his cash. Enough to take a cab to Ezra’s and get his jeep. He looked at the display on his cell phone. Out of juice. He called the ranch from the hospital phone. No answer.

Hell.

He took the elevator down to the hospital lobby and had the valet hail a cab. It was twenty minutes from the hospital to Ezra’s, another twenty back to Purgatorio. He wheeled into his parking space and stepped out into the sunlight. He had to close his eyes for a moment as the glare from the pavement and parked cars sent fresh pain darting into his skull. Shading his eyes, he took refuge in the dimly lighted lobby of his building. He leaned against the wall, trying to marshal the strength to make it up five flights of stairs.

“You could always use the elevator.”

The low, raspy voice from the shadows set Vin upright fast. He looked at the dark figure sitting on the steps. “How’d ya know I’s here?” he asked.

“Called the hospital.” Chris unfolded his body. “C’mon, partner. Let’s get upstairs before I start ragging on you about what the hell you thought you were doing.”

“Thought I was comin’ home,” Vin grumbled. He eyed Chris. “You hear from Ezra?”

“He’s all right. At least his biggest complaint so far was the lumpy mattress he was forced to sleep on.”

“You b’lieve him?”

Chris didn’t answer until Vin had followed him into the elevator, using his answer like a lure to a wild creature. He pushed the button to the fifth floor and prayed that the motor would work. It did, wheezing to life like a tired old man gathering himself to get out of his rocker. “Yeah, I believe him.”

Vin made a non-committal noise in his throat and closed his eyes, willing the elevator to get to his floor before the confined space started to choke him. Even with Chris there, it was hard to breathe. They reached the fifth floor and the doors slid open with an arthritic creak. But they opened, and his apartment was just a few steps away.

Chris deftly plucked the keys from Vin’s unresisting fingers and opened the door. “Sit down before you fall down, Tanner.”

He did, collapsing in a thin, boneless slump on his couch. Chris went into the kitchen and came back a minute later with a tall glass of orange juice. “Drink.” Chris stood over him, blond hair falling over his forehead and his mouth drawn straight and serious. Vin wasn’t about to argue with that look. He tipped the glass and drank. The sweet juice raised his blood sugar and gave him a boost of needed energy so that in a few minutes he was able to return the look without flinching. “Thanks, Chris.”

Larabee sighed and sank down in the chair opposite. He pushed his hair back. “D’Amico is expecting you at his office. If you don’t show up – alone – he’ll kill Ezra.”

“I’ll be there,” Vin said quietly.

Chris shook his head. “You can’t do it.”

Too tired for that hot blaze of anger that Chris’s adamant statement would normally raise, Vin just returned that steady assessment. “You gonna stop me?”

“This isn’t about me countermanding you, Vin. This is about the man I see sitting opposite me. You look like shit on a bad day, Tanner.”

Vin just laughed softly. “Hell, I look like shit on a good day!” He pushed himself off the couch with his hands, a grimace of pain twisting his mouth. “But that don’t mean I’m willin’ t’let a friend die.” He paced to the window and looked out. It was so clear that he could see the pale grey stone column of the building housing D’Amico’s offices. He half imagined he could see the small dark slits that were windows, and if he had a sniper scope to his eye, he might be able to pick out the exact one. Then he shrugged off that much conceit and went back to the couch to sit opposite Chris.

“So if y’ain’t gonna stop me, what are ya gonna do?”

Chris leaned forward, his hand gripping Vin’s slim, hard wrist. “I’m going with you.”

Vin leaned his head back against the cushions. “No. D’Amico means what he says, Chris. Believe me, if he says he wants me alone, I’d better be alone. This ain’t no time to play games.”

“No games, Vin. I’m not walking into D’Amico’s office with you, but if his attention is focused on you, maybe ... maybe ... I can find out where he’s keeping Ezra. And maybe we can find out what this master plan of D’Amico’s is.”

“And maybe one a’ his goons’ll shoot ya on sight. I cain’t let that happen.”

Chris raised a brow. “Don’t make me pull rank on you, Tanner. You know I will.”

“Shit, Chris ...” Vin’s head dropped into his hands and he dug the heels of his palm into his aching eye sockets.

“Look at me, Vin. You are *not* going into this alone, so suck it up and accept it.”

Vin’s dragged his eyes up to Chris’s. The hard edge of command he saw there was implacable, but it was also softened by friendship and concern of a depth and certainty that he had never known, but from this man.

“All right,” he conceded. “I warned ya, and I reckon that’s all I c’n do.”

Chris gave him a wry grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Vin levered himself off the couch. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change.” He started down the hall towards the bathroom. “There’s eggs ‘n sausage in the refrigerator – ” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t want ya wiltin’ on me, Larabee.”

Chris, watching Tanner’s slightly wavering progress down the hall, thought that it would take a minor miracle for either of them to emerge from this day alive.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra watched in silence as D’Amico closed the cell phone, cutting the connection to Chris, and what felt to Ezra like his link to life. He wished he could have held on to that tenuous electronic wisp. He knew he was wilting and he stiffened his spine both physically and metaphorically, sitting up a bit straighter despite the grip Carlo retained on his shoulder.

He kept his eyes fixed on D’Amico’s face. The handsome features, so elegant and refined at first acquaintance, were overlaid with a hard cruelty that distorted them into an ugly mask. Ezra had the same sinking feeling he felt when he knew he had badly underestimated a poker opponent’s bluffing ability. This time, the stakes were much higher than a stack of chips on a table. But he could bluff as well, so he relaxed his shoulders and settled into the chair as if he had no concerns over the continuation of life as he knew it.

D’Amico turned to him with a half smile. “Do you know the one thing of value my uncle taught me, Mr. Standish?”

“I’m sure I am about to find out,” Ezra drawled.

“Gianni was a great manipulator ... of money, of men, of circumstance. It was the base of his empire. He knew men; he knew what makes them act and react. He taught me many things, including the one great weakness in the soul of an honest man. Honor. Gianni told me, ‘Honor makes fools of honest men. You find what an honest man values and he will do anything to preserve it. *Anything.*’”

“Did he also tell you that there is no honor among thieves?”

“Perhaps that is why we are less vulnerable ... and more ruthless.” Narrow grey eyes bored into Ezra’s. “Carlo, take him away. I’ll let you know when to bring him back.”

Carlo muscled Ezra out of the chair, no longer cautious of leaving bruises, fingers digging like iron claws into Ezra’s arms. He failed to suppress his wince, and saw the bright, hot pleasure in D’Amico’s eyes at his discomfort. His chin came up defiantly, and D’Amico froze him with a look of utter contempt.

Carlo pulled him out of the office, twisting his arm behind his back. Ezra’s shoulder, prone to slipping out of its joint, screamed in protest and a gasp of pain escaped from his lips. In response, Carlo ratcheted the armlock higher, and this time Ezra’s knees nearly buckled.

“Can’t take much, can you?” he sneered.

Actually Ezra could, and had, taken quite a lot from men of Carlo’s ilk, but he wasn’t about to tell *him* that. Stupidity would cost him more pain than a clenched fist. So, armored with the knowledge that Carlo would probably hurt him some more, but not beyond repair as long as D’Amico found him valuable, Ezra played the weak-kneed wimp to keep Carlo’s sadistic tendencies in check.

Meanwhile, he hoped Vin would ride in with the cavalry, or at the very least, Chris Larabee, in tow. He was not looking forward to the hours ahead.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris had plates of scrambled eggs and sausage on the breakfast bar when Vin came into the kitchen. His eyes were clearer than they had been, and he moved more easily. Hot water and pain medication had eased his aching ribs, but he was under no illusions about his fitness – he was in sorry shape. He just had to keep Chris from seeing exactly how sorry.

He looked at the food, not really hungry, but knowing that he had to eat to shore up his dwindling physical resources. Hell, Larabee didn’t look much better: sheet-white and drawn with worry deepening the lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Looked like he could use a good meal, too. Vin sat down on one of the stools, picked up a fork and started eating. He gestured to Chris. “You gonna join me, cowboy?”

Chris swung a long leg over the other stool and settled closer to the counter. “Guess I’d better.”

“It’s pretty good. Reckon I won’t shoot the chef t’day.” The humor was forced and the look in Chris’s eyes told him he knew it.

They ate in near silence, tension drawing things out more than usual between them, but not entirely overwhelming their rapport which had never been dependent on words. Vin ate quickly, scarcely tasting the food, his mind racing on towards Ezra and D’Amico. Chris was eating more slowly and Vin wasn’t about to rush him, knowing the reason wasn’t cussedness, but necessity. When Larabee sighed and set down his fork, Vin spoke.

“You still set on comin’ with me?”

“Yeah.”

Blue eyes met green. Vin nodded briefly, grave and steady in his regard. “Thanks.”

Chris knew it wouldn’t change a thing if he said he was only doing his job; Vin would see right through to the heart that spoke so much more clearly than logic and duty. “So, you got a plan?”

A smile, small and grim, touched Vin’s mouth. “All I know is yer gonna have to carry the arms, because there’s no way on earth I’m gonna get within a hundred yards of D’Amico with any sort of weapon.”

“I can do that.”

“Figured as much.” He sighed, stood up and stretched out his back, sacrificing his ribs to ease the ache in his spine. “Might be a good idea t’git JD workin’ on exactly what floor the other offices are on. See if he can’t pull up some sort of schematic.” He paced to the living room, and cast Chris a look. “If you c’n think of some other way t’do this, I’m listening.”

Chris gave a soft laugh. “That’ll be a first.” When Vin gave him an irritated look, he shook his head. “Hell, I’m just making this up as we go along.”

“Yeah, you ‘n me both.” He tossed Chris’s jacket to him, slipped his own over his shoulders, wincing as his bruises and sore muscles made their presence known even over the dulling analgesic he had taken. He patted his pocket to be sure he had remembered to take the pills with him. “Let’s see what happens next,” he said.

Chris caught his jacket. His sidearm was a comforting bulk against his ribs. He had another pistol in an ankle holster, though it was not his favorite rig to shoot from. Vin did it as naturally as breathing, but Chris felt awkward and inaccurate from that stance even if his record didn’t show it.

They loped down the stairs, side by side. When they reached the front door, Vin held Chris back. “I’m takin’ the jeep, Chris. I cain’t risk D’Amico thinkin’ I’m not coming in alone.” The implication that they would be, or could be, watched made the hair on the back of Chris’s neck rise. Vin was watching him, gauging his reaction to the announcement, half expecting an argument, almost hoping that Chris would convince him otherwise.

Chris didn’t try. He wouldn’t risk Vin’s life for his own peace of mind. He nodded. “I’ll watch your back.”

“I know ya will, partner.” Vin held out his hand solemnly, and Chris clasped his forearm. “You be careful out there, Chris. I’ll have D’Amico in my sights, yer gonna be in there blind.” He dug his keys out of his pocket and walked towards his jeep.

Chris watched him, noting every hitch in Tanner’s normally fluid movement, the way his knuckles tightened on the door frame when he braced himself to swing into the seat. The engine of the jeep choked and roared to life. Then Vin was pulling out of the lot and into traffic.

Chris jerked the Ram’s door open. He sat for a moment behind the wheel, pressure building behind his eyes and throbbing in his temples. The familiar flutter of impending action curled in his stomach, nerves fine-tuned to the highest pitch. He closed his eyes and did a few deep breathing exercises he recalled from his time with the SEALs. He pulled his phone out and called JD to ask him to check out D’Amico’s office space and get back to him ASAP. He had lost sight of Vin’s jeep, but he hadn’t intended to follow him too closely. He knew the route, knew Vin wouldn’t alter it without alerting him. JD called back quickly, and by the time he was in the business district Chris had a fairly clear picture of the layout of the building and two floors housing D’Amico’s business concerns.

Vin was parked in a lot across from the building, opting out of the parking garage. Chris followed his example, choosing a spot several rows away from the jeep. He made a final check of his weapons, went over the mental map of the building in his mind, said a thought that was as close to a prayer as he ever got these days, to a deity who had no name but fate. And one to Sarah. He was long past any fear of death. He knew she was waiting on the other side with Adam. His angels. In a poignant, uncharacteristic afterthought, he hoped that Vin’s mother and grandfather were watching after the stubborn, reticent sharpshooter, his friend, his brother in all but blood.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

If he were physically capable of climbing twelve flights of stairs, he would have done it rather than get in that elevator. For one thing, he wouldn’t put it past D’Amico to have a camera in the car and the thought that he’d be under surveillance made him want to crawl out of his skin. He didn’t know what kind of access he’d have from the stairwell to the penthouse: he was fairly certain that there was none, D’Amico not being the type to ignore his vulnerabilities. So, reluctantly, he pushed the button to the penthouse suites and tried to look like he didn’t care that he was being watched.

The doors slid open, and lo and behold, there was Ronnie Fazio in all his glory, scowling at him. “You took your fucking time, Tanner,” he growled.

Vin gave him a cool appraisal. “I’s in the hospital ‘til two hours ago. Woke up yesterday in the ER. Reckon that didn’t make Troy too happy,” he smirked. “Me bein’ damaged goods ‘n all.”

Fazio looked like he wanted to haul off and hit him, which confirmed Vin’s suspicions. He stood close to Vin. “Raise your arms.”

Vin did, knowing he was clean and hating the touch of Fazio’s hands on his body, more intimate than necessary just to see if he could be rattled. When the search was over, Fazio turned sharply and headed towards D’Amico’s office. Vin followed. They went through the sliding panel door into the secretary’s domain. The chilly Margaret wasn’t at her desk today. Not a good sign.

The inner sanctum of D’Amico’s office was brightly lit by the morning sun, but the dark walls and carpeting absorbed the light, making the room seem dim and cool. Troy was seated behind his desk. He looked up when Fazio and Vin entered.

“You came.” Short, almost angry.

“Didn’t give me much choice.”

“Alone?”

Vin looked around the room and gave D’Amico a small, crooked smile. “Looks like it.” He wandered over to the window and looked down at the street. He could scarcely pick out the faded canvas top of his jeep in the lot below, and hoped that the black pick-up on the same lot was Chris’s. He turned back to the room and sat down, ignoring Ronnie Fazio’s drawn pistol. “S'pose we git down t’brass tacks, here, Troy. Stop playin’ games and jist tell me what you want.”

D’Amico leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Nothing you haven’t done before. A killer is a killer.”

Maybe to him, Vin thought. D’Amico seemed to be willing to put him in the same category as Ronnie Fazio. He met D’Amico’s gaze with stony eyes. “Sometimes things is worth killing for. I ain’t so sure you got anything worth that much to me.”

“Ronnie ... bring in our guest, please.”

Vin winced inwardly. No way would Chris have been able to find Ezra. “Ya ever think it might be worth jist tellin’ me who you want me to kill? Might not need forcin’.”

“Don’t think of this as force, think of it as an incentive.”

He looked to the door, and Vin turned. Fazio was there with Standish at his side. Ezra was pale, exhausted, uncharacteristically rumpled. Vin tried to Ezra’s expression, but his professional poker face was inscrutable, his eyes averted from Vin’s.

“Ain’t much of an incentive,” Vin drawled, and Ezra’s head did come up at that. His eyes met Vin’s for a fraction of an instant, and Vin hoped that Ezra had seen the truth behind his words. “Keep talkin’.”

“You are not in a bargaining position, Mr. Tanner,” D’Amico said coldly. He nodded at Fazio. Ronnie scarcely moved, but Ezra gasped as his arm was twisted, putting pressure on his shoulder joint.

Vin knew that an inch more and Standish would be in agony, another inch, and the joint would dislocate. He turned to D’Amico. “Let him go.”

“Just like that? It seems Mr. Standish is more of an incentive than you realized.”

“Ain’t no point in torture,” Vin rasped.

“Oh, I think there is –”

Fazio moved again, and this time Ezra bit back a scream. There was a small, audible pop as the joint dislocated and he fell to his knees. Vin leaped at Fazio, but another stronger pair of arms caught him as Carlo came out of the dark alcove of the wet bar. Vin struggled, but the pain from his bruised ribs and the lingering weakness from the shooting defeated him. He stood gasping in Carlo’s grip.

D’Amico came from behind the desk and stood in front of him. “No bargaining. No arguments. You do what I need, or Standish dies. And not quickly. Do you understand.”

“Fuck off!”

D’Amico struck him across the face, the signet ring he wore cutting into the skin. Vin tasted blood from a cut inside his cheek, felt blood scrawling from the cut on his skin. The rusty-tasting spittle gathered in his mouth, and he hawked and spit before D’Amico could turn away. The gob of blood and mucus hit his face and dripped from his jaw.

D’Amico startled back, and Vin gave a short laugh. “It ain’t pretty close up, is it Troy? Maybe I got some disease – HIV, hepatitis – ya never know.” D’Amico looked like he’d give it another go, his hand raised in anger, loathing and fear in his eyes. Vin saw the fear and smiled, his eyes narrowed and glittering with defiance. He half feared D’Amico would lose control, do some damage that would make him useless. He’d be a dead man ... Ezra, too. But he had wanted to push D’Amico’s buttons, wanted to make him angry enough to get him and Ezra out of the office and down to the other floor. Maybe they’d have a chance then, maybe Chris would be there. Maybe.

God.

It wasn’t much of a prayer, but it worked. D’Amico was in a hurry to clean up, only he didn’t want to show that much weakness. He bared his teeth in an unattractive smile. “You want some time to think about this, Tanner? You’ve got it.” He nodded to Fazio and Carlo, and he and Ezra were dragged out, hustled down to the next floor, and locked in the same office where Ezra had been kept last night. When the door shut behind them, Vin drew a deep breath of relief.

“I sincerely hope that expression on your face is an indication of a plan in motion,” Ezra whispered faintly from the mattress where he sat hunched over, cradling his dislocated arm.

Vin knelt beside him. “You know what I gotta do, Ez?”

Standish nodded. “The sooner the better. Don’t look so shattered. I am prepared for the moment of exquisite agony.”

Vin’s mouth quirked. “Shit, Ez. I’s jist gonna say it’s gonna hurt like hell.” He took Ezra’s elbow in one hand, held his shoulder still with the other. Ezra bit his lip and looked away. Vin had seen Nathan reduced the dislocation before, knew the procedure, but had never done it himself. He took a breath and bent Ezra’s elbow, guiding the joint smoothly upwards. Ezra’s breath hissed between clenched teeth, and for an instant Vin hesitated.

“Do it!” Ezra hissed.

Vin firmed his grip, and then easily – more easily than he had expected – found the perfect position. The ball slid back into socket, Ezra sobbed and caught his breath, then relaxed as the joint returned to its normal state. All tension left him and he sagged against Vin gratefully.

“Thank you,” he said. “I owe you.”

Vin laughed. “I’ll remember that next time I git involved in a poker game with ya, pard.”

Ezra opened a green eye. “Where do we go from here?”

“We wait fer Chris.”

Ezra chuckled. “I might have known you wouldn’t have come without Mr. Larabee.”

“I tried, but I reckon he wasn’t gonna let me have all the glory. Don’t know when or how it’ll happen, but it will.” He believed that with his entire heart.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The floor was eerily deserted. Chris knew there were cameras, but the lights were dim and he was wearing dark clothing. There were no windows in the hallway, just doors on either side. He figured if Ezra were imprisoned on this floor, it would be in one of the small and windowless inner offices, which made sense according to JD’s information. All he had to do was figure out which one of about twenty it was.

He heard the clank of elevator machinery and his heart leapt. Jesus ... no fucking place to hide ... he looked around frantically and saw the door with the universal silhouette for a men’s washroom painted on it. Lord, he hoped it wasn’t locked. Ducking low, he scrambled for the recessed doorway and pulled. It opened and he nearly fell into the darkness. Recovering his balance, he held the door open a crack and heard the elevator glide to a halt. How lucky could he be? Risking a glimpse of the occupants, he stuck his head out a bit further, grateful that he’d had the presence of mind to grab a dark watch cap from his truck to cover his blond hair.

He caught a glimpse of Ronnie Fazio first. Fazio had a fist full of the back of Vin’s t-shirt and a gun ground into his kidney. Carlo followed, nearly dragging Ezra along. Standish was cradling his arm protectively and Chris was pretty sure that shoulder had popped. Didn’t look good. He leaned out as far as he dared. Fazio opened a door near the end of the corridor, shoved Vin inside and moved aside for Carlo and Ezra. The door closed. Fazio said something to Carlo and left.

Chris flattened himself against the wall, leaving the door slightly ajar. Carlo remained stationed outside the office; a square bulk of muscle armed to the teeth. Chris closed his eyes and slumped down to the floor. Seemed like he was going to have to wait out Carlo. A slight grin touched his mouth.

It might take a while, but he was willing to bet he could outlast Carlo’s bladder.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

It wasn’t until after he had taken care of Ezra that Vin was able to take stock of his surroundings. He didn’t like what he was seeing. They were in a small, vacant inner room, no windows. The only illumination came from low intensity fluorescent fixtures and the only furnishing was the mattress on the floor. The air was stuffy, no ducts in the room since it was probably meant as storage, not for work space. No ducts, no windows, dark grey walls, industrial carpeting. Soundless.

A slow crawl of fear began working its way from Vin’s stomach to his throat. His skin tingled and he rubbed his forearms, trying to dispel the disquieting sensation. It was all too recognizable. Ezra’s weakness was his shoulder. Vin’s was his latent claustrophobia. A fancy name for fear.

He paced, hoping the activity would distract him from his awareness of the walls, the silence, the still air. Too many memories crowded in on him ... Of small, dark closets, of locks, of hard voices and harder hands. And if he closed his eyes, he could smell the institutional disinfectant they had used at the home, the mildewed carpeting, the sour scent of wet rags ... He gasped, halting his pacing as the room began to slowly spin.

Ezra was on his feet, fast. Tanner was pale, sweating, trying to suck air. In about ten seconds, he’d be clawing at the walls. Ezra set his hand on Vin’s shoulder. “You’re hyperventilating, Mr. Tanner ...” he said softly. “And I am in no condition to pick you up and carry you should Mr. Larabee deign to come to our rescue.”

Vin blinked, saw Ezra’s sympathetic expression. He raised a shaky hand and wiped the sweat off his upper lip. “What?”

“Your rate of respiration ... You were about to pass out,” he finally said plainly.

Vin looked away, rested his hands on his hips, and made a conscious effort to breathe more slowly. After a few minutes he felt his heartbeat return to a more normal pace and his nerves settled to a quiet hum. He still didn’t like the situation, but at least panic had been staved off. He drew in a deep breath and turned back to Ezra. “Thanks, Ez. Reckon we’re even.”

Standish laughed. “Anythin’ to avoid playin’ poker with me, Mr. Tanner?”

“Gotta play the hand yer dealt,” Vin smiled.

“Then I hope that Fate has dealt Mr. Larabee a royal flush,” Ezra sighed. He hugged his arm to his side, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. Someday, he’d have surgery to tighten the ligaments, but the idea of going under the knife for a reason less than dire was unappealing. It seemed he was already spending way too much time in hospitals of late.

Vin crossed his arms. “Might as well sit down, Ez. Could be a while before Chris gets here.” Unspoken, but lingering in the air like smoke were the words, “*if he gets here ...*”

Vin didn’t sit, but he leaned against the wall, his hands thrust in his jeans pockets to keep them still. He closed his eyes and tried to reach out to Chris with his mind. Times were he swore he could; it seemed Chris could hear his very thoughts, and he could read Larabee’s. Didn’t think it was possible, but if it were, he knew Chris would hear him loud and clear, so he thought: *Take yer time, cowboy. We ain’t goin’ anywhere without you. Don’t take risks ya can’t afford. Me n’ Ez’ll keep. Be safe, Chris. Be safe.*


	5. Part Five

**Part Five**

It took the better part of an hour, but eventually Chris’s patience was rewarded. He’d been keeping an eye on Carlo, watching as he shifted from one foot to another, bent his head from side to side, yawned, adjusted his crotch. Finally, discomfort won over his less than determined devotion to duty. He set the automatic rifle he’d been cradling in his arms on the floor and turned towards the washroom.

Chris ducked back inside. He bent and took the pistol from his ankle holster before he flicked off the light and hid in the single stall across from the urinal, holding the door partially closed and angling his body into the narrow space. Thankfully, the bathroom was on the inner hall and there were no windows to add ambient light. The single fixture was a failing fluorescent tube in the ceiling. Chris grinned to himself. Sometimes the smoking gun *was* a smoking gun. D’Amico’s *business* empire consisted of a floor of empty offices and a lot of dirty dealings in the underworld.

The washroom door opened. Carlo uttered a curse and flicked on the light. He stood in front of the urinal, opened his fly and as soon as Chris heard the splash of urine on porcelain, he was out of the stall, the butt of his gun sweeping down on Carlo’s skull with a hard crack. The bodyguard crumpled, hit his head on the edge of the urinal, and was still. Chris winced. Sympathy only went so far; he jerked Carlo’s tie from around his beefy neck and tied his hands to the pipes, pulling the knot tight. He patted Carlo down, took out a ring of keys and his guns.

Keeping close to the walls, he made his way down the hall. He wasn’t gambling on the security cameras being inactive even if reason made him wonder why D’Amico would need security cameras to protect the dummy offices on this floor. Paranoia required no reason, he figured. He paused in front of the door Carlo had been guarding. He fumbled through the keys, fit a likely one into the lock ... Thank God, D’Amico’s paranoia hadn’t extended to key cards and codes ...

And the lock turned. He knew better than to walk unannounced into a room with Vin Tanner on the loose. Tanner could break a man’s neck six different ways if he was so inclined. “Vin! Ezra!” he hissed.

The door yielded and he slipped inside. Ezra was sitting on an inflatable mattress, his arm cradled against his chest. Vin was already reaching for the one of the guns Chris was carrying tucked against his side.

He gave Chris a wide, white smile. “Knew ya’d come, cowboy.”

“Sorry it couldn’t have been sooner,” Chris apologized to Ezra. “Will you be able to make it out of here?”

“If I had to crawl after you, Mr. Larabee.” Ezra got unsteadily to his feet. “I take it you have a plan to extricate us from this den of pain?”

Chris grinned. “Ain’t much of a plan, Ezra. It’s called let’s get the hell outta here.” He handed Ezra one of Carlo’s pistols.

Standish grinned. “How considerate of our hosts to provide us with the necessities.” He stuck the gun is his waistband. “Now, your plan?”

“According to JD, the displays on the elevator panels indicate the status of the cars, so I’m afraid it’s the stairs, at least until we get down to other floors where there are legitimate offices.”

“Fine with me,” Vin said. He was ready to take point, his eyes glittering with blue fire even in the dim light. Chris restrained him with a touch on his arm. “My operation,” he said quietly. “Need you at the back.” Vin nodded, reason overcoming his need to escape not only this place, but the lingering tang of fear in his mouth. “Let’s ride.”

Chris led the way, hugging the wall to the stairwell. There was no indication that the door was set with an alarm. Again, no reason; unlike the stairwells at the Federal building where the ATF was headquartered. Still, he cautiously opened the door, relieved that it did open. There was a camera set high on the wall, a red light indicating it was active. Chris dropped to his knee. He reached back, tapped Ezra and pointed to the camera. Ezra nodded and passed the word on to Vin. The camera was installed to give a sweeping view of the landing and stairwell. There was no way they could evade its eye.

Vin touched him on the shoulder. “Give me yer hat.”

Chris gave him a look that clearly indicated that he thought Vin was on the verge of insanity, but when Vin curled his fingers in an insistent gesture, Chris pulled the watch cap off and passed it over.

Vin looped it over his fingers, stretching it out. He looked at the camera, and like a basketball player taking the game winning foul shot, lobbed the cap at the camera. Chris held his breath, and Ezra was so still that Chris swore he could hear his heart beating. The dark knit cap sailed through the air and landed with a soft *plop* over the camera lens. Ezra gasped with laughter and Chris just gave Vin a brief smile. “Nice shot, partner.”

“Jist livin’ up t’my reputation.”

They moved onto the landing and descended to the next floor. There was no camera installed. When they got to the ninth floor, they exited the stairwell and caught an elevator down to the ground floor. From there, they left the building. Chris went to get the Ram, while Vin and Ezra waited in the lobby. Then they were in Chris’s truck, driving away from D’Amico’s offices, safe.

For the moment. Vin couldn’t imagine they would remain that way indefinitely. He’d spit in the face of Troy D’Amico, and there was still the devil to pay. That he didn’t doubt. Meanwhile, he looked at Ezra’s strained, pale face and nursed his own aching ribs, grateful that Larabee had arrived in time to save them; not wanting to imagine what would have happened if Chris hadn’t come.

He looked over at Larabee. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“Back to the office. You’re out of this undercover shit, both of you.”

“I will not argue with that, Mr. Larabee,” Ezra said from the back seat. “I find my enthusiasm for this assignment is definitely on the wane.”

Vin rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes. “We jist stirred up a real big nest a’ hornets, Chris. There’s gonna be Hell to pay.”

“Yeah -- for the hornets,” Chris said tersely. “I’ve had it with this case.” He wheeled the Ram around the corner of the parking garage, shoved his ID card into the slot, and yanked it back out when the gate lifted. His tires screeched on the smooth concrete as he tore up the ramps to their parking level, leaving several wide-eyed office workers looking both ways like they expected Satan on his heels.

Vin climbed out of the Ram. Larabee on a tear was a sight to behold, and one that he normally enjoyed. But not this time. The last thing the team needed was for Chris to lose his cold, clear-sighted logic. He touched Chris’s arm lightly as they headed towards the elevator.

“Thanks, cowboy.”

Chris’s eyes darkened. “I wasn’t about to lose either of you to that bastard. I shouldn’t have let you go there in the first place.”

“Wasn’t like ya had a choice. B’sides, when have ya ever been able t’stop me from doin’ something my mind’s set on?”

Chris snorted. “Yeah. One of these days we’re gonna have a little talk about that, Agent Tanner.”

“Sure we will, SAC Larabee.” Vin winked, but even in jest, he wasn’t sure Chris didn’t mean it. He’d been cut a lot of slack, been shielded by Chris from a lot of repercussions for actions that the folks who wrote the books considered reckless endangerment. But then, Chris wasn’t exactly innocent, the way he’d charged into D’Amico’s territory. They were renegades and outlaws every one of them. But they got the job done.

But the job they had been doing was substantially different than the one they had set out on the night of Tosca. It had gone from routine – at least as much as this job could ever be considered routine – to a place where there were no rules, just survival. Where would they go from here?

“Vin?”

He looked up sharply. He’d been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed that he had followed Chris into the elevator and up twelve floors. He gave Chris an apologetic shrug, ignoring the scowl of concern on Larabee’s face. He was fine, and they’d figure something out. Right now, the idea of seeing Troy D’Amico in the crosshairs of his scope seemed real appealing.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

As Orrin Travis looked around at the members of Team Seven gathered in his office, he realized that it had been weeks since he had seen them all in the same room at the same time. He had forgotten how alike they were despite their outward differences. At first glance anyone would wonder what Vin Tanner could possibly have in common with Ezra Standish, or JD Dunne with Buck Wilmington, or the volatile Chris Larabee with Nathan Jackson and Josiah Sanchez. But beneath those differences, they were a team ... no, not a team ... A family.

This case should never have been allowed to drag on, but it had; first due to the difficulty of establishing Standish in D’Amico’s sphere, then the disruption caused by the shooting at the opera and Ed Williams’ deliberate sabotage of the investigation. A deep sadness struck at Orrin’s heart. He would never know why Ed had gone bad, but to be gunned down in an alley in Purgatorio ...

He cleared his throat and looked up, aware that the others were waiting for him to speak. His grave gaze drifted around the table, lingering briefly on the members of the team. Vin Tanner was pale, clearly exhausted, his face showing the bruises left by Troy D’Amico’s hands. Ezra Standish’s arm was in a proper sling since Nathan had insisted he go to the ER for x-rays, but the painkillers he had been given had silenced his usually voluble tongue. And Larabee looked about ready to drop, though clearly determined to hang on to whatever was holding him up. The others were arrayed around them like an honor guard for fallen heroes.

They were the best, and they had been through Hell with the case. Travis wished he could tell them it was over, but it wasn’t. Not by a long shot. His fingers moved over the file in front of him. It had been delivered via special messenger just two hours earlier and had been followed by an hour’s briefing via teleconference with the heads of the ATF and FBI in Washington. If he had known about this sooner, they could have all been spared a great deal of grief and pain, but it was pointless to dwell on his anger over being kept in the dark for so long by his superiors. He only hoped he could explain it to his agents without sounding like a bureaucrat making lame excuses.

“I am glad to see you all here and safe, no matter the circumstances.” He shot a glare at Chris. “However, you would do well to remember that you are members of a team, and that haring off on your own impulses is *not* encouraged. It is dangerous and irresponsible. But I’ll overlook that this once.” He softened the words with a slight smile. “Vin, Ezra, I’m sorry this case took the turn it did.”

“I reckon we knew the risks,” Vin said quietly. “But D’Amico wanted me t’kill somebody, and until we git that figured out, my life ain’t worth a plug nickel.”

Travis opened the file. “I think I may finally have the answer. I spent the last two hours in conference with the brass in Washington, the governor, and our legislators. In two days time, they will be unveiling a sweeping program to attack illegal trafficking in arms, explosives, and money laundering. This will be a blueprint for an international task force, and it will be announced by the governor on the steps of the state capitol at noon the day after tomorrow. The informal title of the address is ‘High Noon for Organized Crime.’”

“Seems like D’Amico is aimin’ to delare his own war before the get-go.” Vin slid his body into a deeper slouch. He ached, he was tired, and now this ... Lord, he wanted to sleep for the next ten years.

Chris looked from Vin to Travis. “How much did Ed Williams know about this task force?” Chris asked. His voice was as hard and cold as his eyes. Travis didn’t have to reply; the answer was written in every line in his face, in the way his shoulders slumped slightly in acknowledgment and defeat. “Did you know?” he asked Travis.

Orrin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I didn’t know the details,” he said. He was angry that Chris believed he was lying, angry that he had been placed in the awkward position of having to defend himself to a subordinate – though that word applied to Chris Larabee was laughable. “I knew there was a task force being assembled and that I would be asked to serve on it. I suspect Ed Williams knew a great deal more than he should have.”

Even Josiah looked angry at that, his big hands clenched on the edge of the table. “May God have mercy, ‘cause I’m not feeling exactly charitable,” he growled.

“You should have told us,” Chris said. “Given us some warning before I sent Ezra and Vin in so deep that it nearly killed them.” His voice was calm, but the skin over his cheekbones was taut and pale, and his mouth was grim.

Maybe he should have. But they were *so* close to getting the big fish. D’Amico’s organization had ties all over the southwest, and he was expanding his territory into California. Travis had been as guilty as the next man of wanting the bust for his team ... his trophy team. He’d been under pressure from the higher ups, and no one had gotten closer to D’Amico than Ezra and Vin. “It wasn’t my call, Agent Larabee.”

Chris’s gaze didn’t waver, but eventually he must have seen how difficult this was for Travis, and the tension holding his shoulders high relaxed. “So, what happens now?” he asked. “I suppose we’re expected to clean up the mess Williams left.”

“Just because Vin is no longer in D’Amico’s plans doesn’t mean we can assume that he will not attempt some sort of disruption at the press conference.”

“Call off the press conference,” Vin said. “Take the opportunity away from D’Amico. Shouldn’t be so hard to do these days.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Travis flashed back at him. “However, the governor’s press secretary has convinced him that to do so will be a sign of weakness. It will defeat the whole purpose of the task force if we run for cover at the first threat from the very people we are trying to contain.”

“We?” Buck spoke for the first time. “Seems like there’s no *we* involved. *We* are the guys riskin’ our lives for a bunch of stiff-necked bureaucrats who ‘re too proud to admit to havin’ been compromised, not you.”

“Buck!” JD hissed, and Josiah coughed softly in warning.

Travis raised his hand. “Why don’t we call this a draw? I was wrong, you were right. But apportioning blame is not the priority here. We are facing a very difficult and dangerous situation and we have only twenty-four hours to formulate a plan.”

Chris stood up. “With all respect, sir. We need to come at this with clear heads. Right now, we’re operating on about four hours sleep in the last twenty-four,” he glanced around at Vin and Ezra, “and some of us, considerably less.”

“Sleep might be a luxury we can’t afford,” Orrin said.

“Might be a luxury you can’t not afford.” This time it was the usually silent Nathan who spoke up. “Lookin’ around this table I see too many tired faces. And tired means mistakes. You think you can afford those?”

Travis sighed. He couldn’t argue with medical opinion. Hell, he was tired, and in truth there was not much that could be done until the security teams were available to coordinate their positioning. He closed the file in front of him decisively. “Very well. I’ll expect you all back here at 9am. No later.”

It was very nearly a collective sigh that rose from the seven men around the table. Chris looked at his watch. It was nearly seven. “Well, you heard the man. Go home, get some rest. Buck, you take Ezra home with you and JD. Vin, you’re with me.”

“Chris, I –”

“No arguments, Tanner. You either, Ezra. You’re both too damn vulnerable to be left alone tonight. Keep in touch. Be alert. Anything doesn’t seem right, call for back-up. Be back here at 8:30, ready for business.” No one was inclined to voice any further objections. They returned to their office in near silence, picked up their belongings and went down to the garage together.

Buck touched Chris’s arm before he climbed up into the cab of the Ram. “You watch your back, pard. Don’t think Vin’s up to the job right now.”

“Take your own advice, Buck. Don’t let Ezra talk you into taking him to his place. At least you’ve got decent security. That condo of his is an ambush waiting to happen.”

Buck’s brow rose. “You takin' Junior out to the ranch?”

“I ain’t letting him stay in Purgatorio.” He smiled slightly. “We’ll be all right.”

“Sure. See ya in the morning. Call when you’re back home, okay?”

“I will.” Before he got into the Ram, he took his usual walk around and only when he was sure nothing was out of place, he climbed in and started the engine. Vin was settled in the angle formed by the seat and the door. His head was tipped back and his eyes were closed. When the engine roared to life, he opened his eyes.

“I hear ya say we’re goin’ out to the ranch?”

“Yeah.”

“Ya don’t have to --”

“You know me better than to think I’d let you spend the night within easy reach of Troy D’Amico. At least the ranch is inconvenient.”

Vin gave a soft, weary chuff of laughter. “Inconvenient ... nice word, Chris.” He closed his eyes again. “Hell, I’m too damn tired t’argue with ya.”

“Good. Because if you did, I’d have to shoot you. I’m too tired to take any of your lip.” He swung the Ram around the last corner of the garage and turned into traffic. Driving an hour to the ranch wasn’t exactly what he needed, either. His stomach was burning again, reminding him that he it was time to take his medicine and get something to eat.

By the time they were on the freeway, Vin was asleep and Chris was struggling to keep his eyes open. He cracked the window and turned the radio on, knowing that as long as Vin sensed he was safe, he’d sleep through World War Three. He finally settled on a sports talk station because it wouldn’t get his dander up or lull him into a doze. Still, he was hard pressed to remember a time when he’d been more relieved to turn into his own driveway.

He reached over and gave Vin a gentle shake. “Hey, partner. We’re home.”

Vin opened bleary eyes. “Seems like ya flew here.”

Chris grimaced. “I wish. Stay here while I check things out.”

“Hell, Chris, I ain’t so bad that I cain’t walk point with ya.” He spoiled the effect with a yawn, but opened the door, swung his legs over and reached to pull his service revolver from his ankle holster.

Together he and Chris made a walk around the house, checked doors, windows and the foundation before they risked the front door. The security system was armed, the house quiet and warm with that sense of undisturbed peace that meant more than any little green light on a display. Chris locked the door and re-armed the system. Both men headed towards the den.

Vin drew the drapes as Larabee switched on the lights. Chris went to the bar and took out two glasses. “You drinkin’, Vin?”

Vin grinned crookedly. “Long’s ya don’t tell Doc Stone. I figure my liver’s either gonna heal or it ain’t. Hasn’t hurt fer a few days.”

Chris dropped two ice cubes into the glass and added a splash of water. “This should blunt the impact.” However, he left his own straight. He dug into his pocket and took out one of his antacid pills. He downed it with a shot of water before he carried the glasses over to the sofa where Tanner had dropped in a boneless slump.

He sank down beside Vin and took a deep swallow of the liquor. The slow drain of tension from his body was palpable. He took out his cell phone and called Buck to tell him that they were safe at the ranch. Vin sipped his drink in silence, but found he had lost his taste for it and set it down on the coffee table. He tipped his head back against the deep cushions, toed off his boots and turned sideways, his feet up on couch. His gaze fell on Chris and he smiled when he saw Larabee’s head drooping on his chest, the tumbler of whiskey tilting dangerously in his lax fingers. Vin took the glass from his hands, set it beside his own on the table, and, with a sigh, settled into the couch. About time Larabee surrendered to what his body was screaming for. Vin felt his own eyes growing heavy and he did not fight the comforting blanket of sleep that came upon him as softly as a drift of snow.

 

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The aroma of coffee woke Vin. Lethargic and feeling slightly stupid with exhaustion, he stretched out his legs and sat up, scrubbing sleep from his eyes. The clock on the mantel read 9pm. He had slept for two solid hours as soundly as he could ever recall sleeping. He made his way to the kitchen where Chris had put a pot of coffee on to brew. There was a pot of soup on the stove, bread and sandwich fixings on the counter. The sound of water running through the pipes suggested that Larabee was taking a shower.

Vin poured coffee and made a ham sandwich with lettuce and tomato. He sat at the table and ate slowly, waiting for Chris. He finally came into the kitchen. His hair was damp, he had shaved, but his face was still too drawn for Vin’s liking.

“You sleep at all?” he asked Chris.

“Some. Not enough, but my stomach was clamoring for food, so I figured I’d better feed it.” He put a sandwich together, ladled soup into a mug, and joined Vin. “Think you can stay awake long enough to eat?” he asked.

“I ate.” He stood up. “Think I’ll use the shower. I Feel like I’ve run ten miles in the desert. Sort of dried up and sweaty at the same time.” He grinned at Chris. “Hell, we both look like we’s rid hard and put away wet.”

“I reckon we do.” He grinned back. “You know where everything is. Help yourself.”

Vin paused at the doorway to the hall and looked back at him. “Thanks, Chris. Didn’t have much time to say it before.”

Chris shook his head. “You don’t have to say it, not to me. I know.”

“Sometimes I need t’say it. And you need t’hear it.” He ducked his head, color rising in his cheeks, and vanished into the dark hall.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Buck woke from a fitful sleep around 3am. He kept dreaming about Chris, vague worry running like a thread through confused images from their past. He sat up in bed and saw a light showing beneath his door. He reached for the sweatpants at the foot of his bed and pulled them on. Somebody else wasn’t sleeping too well, either.

He went down the spiral staircase. The light was coming from the kitchen. “JD?” he queried.

“Our young friend is deep in the arms of Morpheus,” Ezra drawled. He was sitting at the table, a tumbler of milk and three cookies on a napkin in front of him. “An embrace that seems to be eluding us. Join me?”

“I think I might.” He poured himself a glass of milk. “Your shoulder botherin’ you?”

“Not enough to keep me awake. The pills they gave me at the ER do a fine job of pain relief, but leave something to be desired as sleep aids.”

“I don’t suppose bein’ locked up by that bastard has anything to do with it?”

Ezra gave him a sour look. “Only every time I close my eyes.”

Buck’s expression was compassionate enough to make Ezra look away. “We’ll get him, Ez. Ya know we will.”

“Of course. But ... ” Ezra’s voice trailed off and his hand shook slightly as he lifted his glass.

“When was the last time you took one of them pain pills?” Buck asked

“I could take another,” Ezra admitted.

“You want one of them or something slightly more liquid?”

Ezra weighed the decision. “An ibuprofen would work as well with some encouragement. What are you offering?”

“Got some of that single malt scotch with the unpronounceable name.”

“Laphroig,” Ezra said, a chuckle in his voice. “Or ‘leapfrog’ as Vin has christened it. It wasn’t to your liking?”

Buck laughed. “I was supposed to *drink* it?” When he saw the slightly offended look on Ezra’s face, he amended, “I figured if I saved some for ya, one a’ these days it’d come in handy.” He went to the cupboard he and JD used as a liquor cabinet and poured a stiff shot into a glass.

Ezra sipped like it was a religious experience. “Thank you, my friend.”

Buck finished his milk. “I’m gonna try to catch a few winks. You help yourself if you need more medication.” He winked and vanished into the dark apartment.

Ezra drank a bit more of the smooth, smoky-tasting scotch. It did more to calm his nerves than the pain pills had done, but it couldn’t chase the worries that crowded in the back of his mind or the taint of fear that lingered like dust in his throat. This case was haunting him as few others had. It wasn’t the danger; he’d survived worse than a beating and a dislocated shoulder. It was the dark veil of betrayal and death that no amount of whiskey could chase. Troy D’Amico wasn’t finished yet, and that was what kept Ezra from sleeping.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

A warm wind swept across the plaza in front of the capitol building, scattering leaves and dust. Barricades were being erected for crowd control, though Chris suspected they were more to block off cars than an influx of pedestrians. The vast majority of Denver’s citizens would be oblivious to the announcement of the task force. They wouldn’t recognize the importance, know how much of an impact D’Amico’s crimes had on their lives. And that was how it should be. That’s why Chris and the others went to work every morning with guns strapped to their bodies, armed for the fight that was constantly waged to protect the rights of ordinary people.

Vin stood next to him, a dark ATF cap on his head, his hair secured back with a length of rawhide shoelace, his eyes shielded by dark sunglasses. His shoulder rig was hidden by a faded denim shirt. High-powered binoculars on a leather strap were looped around his neck.

The tails of his shirt fluttered in the wind as he raised the binoculars and surveyed the buildings around the capitol. The sun dancing off the gold dome was dazzling even with the polarized sunglasses. That could be a problem tomorrow if the weather held. He half-wished that a weather front would move in and force the ceremony inside where there was a better chance of controlling the environment and keeping D’Amico at bay.

Chris tried to follow the line of Vin’s visual sweep, to see what his partner was seeing. The sun glare from the dome, the angle of sight from the rooftops, the way the streets were cordoned off. He often wondered how Vin could calculate angles, wind-speed, light and shadow to a millimeter with unerring instinct. It wasn’t anything they’d taught him in sniper school. It was muscle memory to Vin, not mathematics, almost as if he remembered every shot he’d ever taken; the conditions, the feel of his gun, even the way he breathed. He was a natural hunter, but not a natural killer, and Chris often wondered how deep Vin had buried the memory of his kills when every time he peered through a scope he had to recall them.

“Well, what do you think?” Chris asked quietly.

“Hell of a place to secure,” Vin sighed and lowered the binoculars. “There’s about a hundred places D’Amico could put a sniper ... if he sticks to that plan. Hell, Chris, we don’t know what he’s plannin’ now that we’ve gone and spoiled his little plot.”

Chris nodded. “I was wondering about that.”

“You bring it up to Travis?”

“He knows.”

Vin shook his head. “Tell me again why they ain’t canceling this shindig?”

“Stupidity.”

“They got their heads up their assholes for sure. And I ain’t so sure we ought ta be the ones to pull ‘em out.”

“That’s what they pay us to do, whether we like it or not.”

“I don’t like it. Not this time.” He scuffed the sole of his boot across the pavement. “Got a bad feeling about this, Chris.”

Before Chris could reply, his cell phone rang. He listened, made an affirmative comment and closed it. “We’ve got to get back to the office for a briefing with the FBI and the governor’s security team.”

Vin gave the area a final visual sweep. He wasn’t happy with the logistics, and he intended to make his dissatisfaction known. “Let’s git movin’, then.” He paused, frowning. “Chris, they got security cameras on the capitol, right?”

“Yes ...” Chris gave him a curious look.

“We need t’see any tapes they have from dawn ‘til we got here.” He lifted his sunglasses and squinted at the capitol facade. It was a gamble, but it might have a big pay-off if D’Amico had been scoping out the area. Or it might be a big waste of time.

Chris didn’t hesitate. He called Travis, asked if they could have access to the tapes, and have them messengered over to the Federal Building ASAP. “They’ll be there in an hour.” He touched Vin’s shoulder. “C’mon. We might as well get this over with.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Later, in a small, dark room, Vin sat hunched in front of a TV-VCR. Under conditions that would normally have sent his nerves into overdrive, he was so intently focused on the monitor that he scarcely moved lest he miss something.

Chris came in quietly, set a mug of coffee on the table at Vin’s elbow and pulled a chair up to sit next to him. The images on the screen were grainy, and Chris wondered how many times the tape had been played and re-used. “Anything?” he asked.

Vin shook his head, not taking his eyes from the screen. “Nothin’ out of place. Don’t think we –” His hand jerked on the remote, freezing the image. “Look,” a soft breath of a command. He picked up a pencil. “See anything?”

Chris squinted. “What am I looking for?”

“This is the plaza, right?” Vin traced a line across the screen. “Up here, on this building ...” He backed up a few frames. “No shadow, no shadow, no shadow ... but here, a shadow.”

“Jesus, Vin. That could be anything.”

“What? It’s too big t’be a bird. There ain’t anything near to cast a shadow that shape and besides, the sun was behind that building, not in front of it.”

Chris rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Say you’re right. There could be any number of reasons why somebody was up on that roof. Maintenance, out for a smoke, curiosity. It might even have been another cop.”

“Could be, but I’d be willin’ to bet it wasn’t.” He stopped the tape and stood up, stretching and grimacing as his back muscles cramped. “You want ta come on a recon with me, partner?”

Chris was tired, his head hurt, and standing around on a rooftop with the sun beating down mercilessly was not his idea of a good time, but he wouldn’t let Tanner go alone. He called Travis on the office phone and told him that they wanted a crime scene tech with them, and why.

He hung up the phone and frowned at Vin. “We might be wasting a lot of valuable time.”

Vin nodded. “Your call, Larabee.”

“Let’s ride,” he said crisply. Indecisiveness had never been one of his personality traits.

Twenty minutes later they were standing on the flat rooftop where Vin had spotted the shadow on the videotape. He stood at the doorway leading from the stairwell to the roof, Chris and the tech behind him. He looked back at them. “Let me do a walk around first. If I need ya, I’ll let ya know.”

He looked around. The smell of dust and asphalt rose in waves from the surface and the surrounding buildings shimmered in the heat like desert mirages. The gold dome of the capitol was veiled by heat and smog, looking vaguely foreign and yet familiar. The vision sent Vin back to the Middle East where he had spent time as a Ranger. He half expected to hear the call of the muezzin rising in the hot, still air. He closed his eyes and heard the sounds of Denver traffic, instead.

“Vin! You all right?”

He opened his eyes and waved Chris forward. He began a slow pace of the perimeter. There were small piles of debris in corners; the usual detritus of urban life chased by the wind. His eyes picked out remnants of cellophane packaging and cigarette butts, candy wrappers, a red pencil. How the hell did a red pencil get up here?

A *red* pencil.

He motioned to the tech. “Kerry, bag that. And any cigarette butts that look less than a week old.” He walked up to the ledge running around the edge of the rooftop. It was a good height to support a sniper’s arms. A good angle down to the plaza. He narrowed the focus of his gaze. A small, red *X* had been scratched on the rough concrete ledge. Vin drew in a breath. He stood at the exact spot and measured visually.

He looked at Chris, his blue eyes wide and a bit dilated even in the bright light. “We got at least one shooter up here, Chris.”

“You want a photo of that, Agent Tanner?” Kerry asked.

He nodded at her. “Thanks, Kerry.” The camera shutter clicked. He moved aside. “Stand right here and take a few shots of the plaza.” He set his hands gently on her shoulders and placed her where he had been standing.

“One shooter?” Chris raised a brow. “You think there’s more?”

“Maybe.” Vin started walking. “Though that’s the best angle to the steps.”

They paced the length of the wall, but Vin didn’t find anything that indicated another position for a gunman. He stopped, sighed. Looked up at the sky overhead. “Shit. We cain’t comb every rooftop in the city. And knowin’ Troy like I do, he ain’t gonna take the chance with one sniper.”

“He was willing to take that chance with you,” Chris reminded him.

“But I never got to hear his plan clear through! Yeah, maybe I’m better than this guy, or maybe I’s jist a sideshow t’the main event. There’s more ‘n one way to skin a cat.” The sun suddenly seemed unbearably bright and perilous. Perspiration scrawled down his spine and beaded on his skin. He took his cap off and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I’m hot. Let’s git off this roof b’fore m’brain gits fried.”

Chris wasn’t about to argue with that, not with the way his eyes were beginning to fire a pre-migraine aura. “Let’s go, Kerry.” He looked at Tanner, visibly pale now. He touched his arm lightly. “We got at least one of the bastards, Vin.”

“It ain’t enough,” he said. “There’s more, and I’m the hell out of ideas.”

“Then it’s time for somebody else to step in. We’ll take what we’ve got to Travis and go from there. No use killing yourself over this. There’s plenty of others out there aiming to do just that.”

A smile twitched at Vin’s mouth. “That’s *real* comforting, Larabee.”

Chris smirked. “Just trying to keep things in perspective.”

“Smart ass.”

Kerry stifled a giggle and followed the two men into the stairwell. She didn’t know how smart Larabee’s ass was, but the view was mighty fine.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Where did you go when you didn’t know where to turn next? That was the dilemma facing Orrin Travis as he considered his options. With the task force announcement being scheduled for a weekend, that left hundreds of vacant offices as possibilities. The streets would be free of weekday traffic and the immediate access routes to the capitol would be blockaded with security checkpoints. They were doing everything *right,* but right wasn’t always enough.

His head throbbed. He studied the logistical plan the FBI had drawn up and knew that it was riddled with holes like a piece of Swiss cheese. Disgusted and weary, he closed the report and rubbed his eyes.

A soft knock on the door and his secretary peered in. “Sir, Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner are here.”

“Send ‘em in.” He straightened as the two agents entered.

Lord, they looked beyond exhaustion. Hollow-eyed, thin, pale. Tanner’s slim strength was played out and Larabee’s steel core was eroded to a gossamer thread. If Travis ever got his hands on Troy D’Amico, he’d kill him for that alone.

“Sit down, the both of you,” Travis barked. He pressed his intercom. “Gloria, bring coffee and have some sandwiches sent up.”

Vin slouched, drained of energy. Chris leaned forward, elbows on knees. “We found one sniper’s emplacement.”

“One?”

“There could be more,” Chris sighed. “Or an alternate plan. Orrin, I ... we ... can’t do this alone.”

“You’re not alone.” Travis objected.

Vin gave a quiet laugh. “No? Sure as hell feels like it.” He was skating on the edge of insubordination, but he was too tired to care. “Sure felt like it when me and Ezra were locked up in that room jist waitin’ fer Chris and not knowin’ whether or not he’s gonna make it there alive. You ever put a man’s shoulder back in place?” he asked almost casually.

Travis’s expression turned stony. Chris saw the warning signs of a reprimand and knew Vin was in no shape to hear it. “He’s right,” he interjected quietly. “We’ve been walking this road alone for too long, Orrin. Shouldn’t be that way, and I don’t understand why I get the feeling that we’re being staked out like a Judas Goat so you can get D’Amico.”

“For Christ’s sake, Chris!” Larabee just raised a golden brow, his simmering anger barely disguised by skepticism. Travis sighed and went to the window. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Nice apology, Orrin. But I need more than that.” He uncoiled from the chair, and Travis saw that he was lethal still, despite his exhaustion. Vin pulled himself up, ready to follow Chris.

“Wait.”

Chris paused, turned. “Truth?”

“At least hear me out. If after I tell you, you want out, I will pass this on to Treasury.”

Chris returned to his seat. Vin just leaned against the wall, waiting and watchful in the semi-shadows. Travis drew a breath and was about to begin speaking when Gloria knocked at the door and came in with a tray of sandwiches and mugs of coffee. She looked at their three tense faces. “Sorry, sir,” she apologized.

“No, not at all. Thank you, Gloria.” He would have insisted that Chris and Vin eat, but judging from their stony expressions that would have been seen as a delaying tactic on his part. The sandwiches would keep and the coffee could be reheated.

He went to his desk, opened his security drawer and took out a file. “This has the details. However, what I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Chris replied.

Travis smiled grimly at the formality. “I am sorry that you’ve borne the brunt of this horror. You know how I feel about you, about your team. I trust you with more than my life ... Ultimately, you are the only ones I do trust, can trust. This mess with Williams goes deeper than any of us realized at first. He was the first outward sign of infection, but not the only one. I was asked by the Director himself to conduct this investigation, not only to stop D’Amico, but to find the source of the internal corruption.” He pushed the file over the desk. “I may be screwing my career all to hell by telling you this, but maybe I’ll be able to sleep again. And maybe you will, too.”

“You could have told us, Orrin,” Chris sighed.

“No, I *couldn’t.* And even now, I’ve probably violated sixty security protocols by passing this on.”

Chris looked at Vin. “Might as well sit down and have a sandwich while I read this.” He opened the file, started reading.

Vin unwrapped one of the sandwiches and nudged Chris. “You c’n eat and read at the same time, Larabee.”

Chris took the sandwich absently and chewed on it even though his eyes never left the report. It didn’t take long. He returned the file to Travis. “They traced this all the way back to Waco,” he said. “That’s a long time to keep something like this under wraps.”

“They *traced* it, they didn’t know about it. Not until Williams showed up in Phoenix and that business with the gun licenses got out of hand. That evidence disappeared before we could jump on it and it seemed the trail was cold until D’Amico started coordinating his business dealings here in Denver with the dealers in Phoenix.”

“Coordinating?” Chris queried, one brow aslant.

“Coordinatin’ us t’death,” Vin added acidly. “Don’t suppose anybody thought t’tell us about this ‘coordinatin” that was goin’ on b’fore me and Ezra damn near got killed?”

“I didn’t know you had been compromised, I swear it. I admit I wanted this case. Probably more than I should have at the beginning. Maybe ambition blinded me, maybe I was just so *sure* that you would be the team who could pull this off that I played out the line farther than caution would normally dictate –”

Vin laughed softly. “Hell, I reckon caution ain’t exactly what comes t’mind when ya look at us.” For the first time since he had entered Travis’s office, he smiled. “Cain’t blame ya fer that.”

Travis echoed the smile. “Not exactly. I meant what I said. I will pull you off this case if that’s what you want me to do.”

Chris stood. “I have to take this to the others. I owe that much to Ezra at the very least.” Faint alarm showed on Orrin’s face. “I won’t compromise security, sir. I think I have that much discretion.”

“I can’t give you much time.”

“Half an hour?” Chris suggested.

“No more.” Grey eyes met green, and the resolve Travis saw in Chris Larabee was both reassuring and shaming. Guilt was not something Travis bore easily; he could neither dismiss it, nor bow to it. “Thank you.” He would have held out his hand but were he in Chris Larabee’s place, he wasn’t sure that he would have accepted it.

“It won’t take that long,” Chris said. Vin nodded to Travis and followed Larabee from the office, leaving him to his worries and guilt.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin didn’t say much in the elevator on the way back down. He leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, his arms crossed. Chris watched him, not liking his pallor or the way the shadows beneath his eyes seemed to darken with every hour. He knew better than to remark on it, figuring that he probably didn’t look much better than the sharpshooter. Hell, he didn’t *feel* much better than Vin looked. His stomach burned despite the medication he was on, and his headache was simmering behind his eyeballs, just waiting to explode into a full-blown migraine. Chris slumped against the wall, his posture an exact mirror of Tanner’s. When the elevator doors slid open, both men straightened with identical weary grunts and then grinned sheepishly at each other.

“I feel s’ old as you, Larabee,” Vin rasped.

“Right now, I’d be lucky if I felt that good.”

Vin’s gaze sharpened. “Maybe we oughtta take Travis up on his offer.”

“You want to?”

“Hell, no! But wantin’ and needin’ ain’t ‘xactly the same thing.”

“Let’s take it to the others, see what they think.”

Privately, Vin thought that if they took one look at him and Chris, they’d hand over the case on a silver platter. But that wasn’t what he wanted and he was pretty sure it wasn’t what Chris wanted, either. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly.

Chris paused outside the office door. “You sure?”

“Sure as shootin’.”

Knowing Vin, that was pretty damn sure. He opened the door, letting Tanner drift in ahead of him. The other members of the team were seated at their desks. JD was playing a video game on his computer, Buck was reading reports, Ezra was playing Solitaire, Nathan and Josiah were reading professional journals. Or at least that’s what it looked like they were doing. What was going on in their collective minds was entirely another matter.

Regardless, all activity ceased when they heard Chris step inside. He knew they were waiting, but he had to take care of his head and stomach first. “Give me five minutes before you all start firing questions, okay?” He went into his office, to the small lavatory and took out his migraine meds. He used the nasal spray, then took an ulcer pill. He splashed water on his face, dried off. He avoided looking in the mirror. Five minutes. He should have taken ten, but he lay down on the couch anyway, knowing they would be knocking on his door if he drifted off ...

“Chris?”

A light touch on his shoulder. He opened his eyes. “Five minutes already?”

“Ten.” Buck stood looking down at him. “Old son, you’re in about as bad a shape as I’ve ever seen ya.”

Chris pushed himself upright. “I’m fi --”

“Sure you are.” Buck perched on the arm of the sofa. “You wanna tell me what the hell is goin’ on here?”

Chris sighed. Rubbed his forehead. “Need to talk to everybody about this, Buck.” He stood up, swaying, and Buck’s strong arm came over his shoulders.

“Maybe they oughtta come in here, partner. You just get yourself horizontal and I’ll get the others and some water.”

“I’m f—”

“Unless you’re about t’say yer a fucked-up mess, you’d best keep that lie to yourself. I’ve known ya too long to be faked out by Larabee cussedness.” He pushed Chris down on the couch, not at all amused by the ease of Larabee’s surrender. This was bad ... real bad.

He returned to the outer office and glared at Vin. “You got any idea what’s goin’ on here?”

“I’m in the middle of it, ain’t I?” Vin returned the glare; hard to do when he was so tired he could barely see straight to begin with.

“You gonna tell us?”

“That’s Chris’s job, not mine. So back off, Buck, an’ give me a chance t’breathe, okay?” He went to the coffeepot and hesitated over pouring a cup. Caffeine would only give him the shakes at this point.

“Perhaps this might help?” Ezra handed him a cold bottle of Evian.

“Thanks, Ez,” Vin said, surprised by the kindness. The bottle was cold, sweaty, and he wanted to press it to his aching eyes like an ice-pack and rest it against his hot, dry cheeks. But aware that he was being watched, he opened it and drank. It was gone too fast, and he was even more surprised when Standish took the empty bottle and replaced it with a fresh one. He gave Ezra a grateful nod and cracked the plastic seal. He drank a few sips, relishing the feel of the cool liquid sliding down his throat. It was as welcome as dew in the desert.

Buck’s hostility eased back a bit as he watched Vin. He was in no better shape than Chris, and maybe worse seeing as he was coming off being wounded. He sighed, walked over to Vin and set a light hand on his tense shoulder. “Sorry, Junior. I ain’t angry with you. I just want ta know what’s got Chris so tied up in knots he can’t see straight.”

“Get in here and I’ll tell you,” Chris was hanging on to the door frame. “You inclined to share any more of that water, Ezra?”

“I might be persuaded, Mr. Larabee.” Ezra went to the small refrigerator and took out another bottle.

“Then bring it on in. We’ve got a decision to make and we don’t have much time.”

They filed into his office, took their usual positions; Vin leaning against the wall closest to Chris’s desk, the others in chairs or on the sofa. Chris took the time to drink the water Ezra had given him. The migraine medicine had kicked in and his stomach wasn’t on fire any longer, but to say he felt better would have been a bald-faced lie. But he could function, and that was all that was required with this team. He didn’t have to tap dance around politically correct issues, he didn’t have to sugar-coat unpleasant realities, or curb his emotions to spare others their blistering impact. And in turn, they would be honest to the point of pain with him.

He took a breath. “If we could get out of this case without any further involvement, would you do it?”

Silence.

“After *how* many months?” Buck asked tightly. “After Vin and Ezra riskin’ their lives and nearly gettin’ killed? After the crazy fuckers tried to take you down right here in this building? You’re jokin’, right?”

“No.”

“Do you want out, Chris?” Josiah asked.

Chris sighed. “It’s not just about me or Vin. It’s about all of us. Is the work we’ve done on this case worth it to you to continue?”

“Well, yeah!” JD exclaimed. “I mean, we’ve spilt blood over this and if we back down, isn’t that the same thing as letting D’Amico win?”

“I don’t believe we should withdraw for my benefit,” Ezra drawled. “Personally, I was anticipating the pleasure of seeing Troy D’Amico and his associates led away in restraints to some appropriate federal facility.”

“Ezra’s right,” Nathan added. “We sign off on this, we’re sayin’ we’ve been beat. And we ain’t. Not by a long shot.”

“Vin?”

His mouth twisted into a smile. “I’m still standin’, Larabee. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my eyes.”

Chris looked at each of them, pride swelling in his heart. He picked up the phone and dialed Travis’s direct number. “Orrin, we’re in. All of us.” Travis didn’t say much, just a sigh of what sounded like relief rather than resignation. Chris hung up. “Now, I’m gonna tell you what I know about this whole sorry mess.”

He stood up, thrust his hands in his pockets, paced. “Ed Williams joined the ATF about the same time I did. I didn’t know him well. We weren’t on the same teams. He was more paperwork oriented. Licenses, permits – white collar stuff. He was only in Denver for a few months before he went down to Phoenix. I was pretty deep into an investigation of some paramilitary splinter groups. They were getting guns from all over, we were working 24/7 trying to trace the sources, but the leads were vanishing like water running into sand.”

The memory of those days was blurred by the shadow of his exhaustion, but still painful to recount. He stood at the window, feeling the eyes of his team on him as they waited for him to continue. “There were rumors even then that some of the permits and licenses being issued in Phoenix were questionable. Williams was promoted to SAC of the department. He got the job because he said he would be hard on fraudulent applicants, that he’d clean the town up. I remember seeing a picture of him wearing a white cowboy hat, like he was the re-incarnation of the Lone Ranger.”

Chris sighed. “Then things got complicated. Cases I was working on started going to hell. Paperwork disappeared. There was a scandal involving some dealers that Williams approved which turned out to be fronts for illegal weapons importers.”

“You gonna tell us something we don’t know?” Buck asked tersely.

“You gonna let me tell it my way?” Chris shot back, angry that his flow of thought had been interrupted. It was hard enough putting all this together when his head felt like it was about to fly apart without Buck throwing in his two-cents worth.

“Take your time, Chris. We got it,” Josiah soothed.

“I wish we did.” Chris gathered his thoughts. “Washington knew something was wrong going back to Waco. But with the bad blood out there – and with every move under scrutiny – they kept quiet. Just kept tabs on what was coming in, where it came from. Eventually, it led to Phoenix. That’s when the heat came to bear on Ed Williams for issuing questionable permits.” He gave JD a look. “We know what happened to that investigation.”

“Are you sayin’ the brass *knew* and they still kept him on the job?”

Chris nodded. “They hoped Williams would lead them down the money trail. So they transferred him here.”

Buck ran a hand through his hair. “Did *Williams* know?”

“He musta suspected somethin’.” Vin said quietly. “Why else’d he put us between himself an’ D’Amico? He set up Ezra and me for a fall, figurin’ he could make it look like we’d been turned. Thought he could force Travis t’back off from the investigation and turn it all over to him in Treasury. He was good, real good. But he warn’t smart enough t’see he was sleepin' with the devil.”

“Now he’s sleeping with the fishes,” JD commented under his breath to Buck, and was speared with a look from Chris that made him blush. “Sorry, Chris,” he apologized. “I ain’t laughing.”

“I know.” Chris returned to his chair. He was suddenly so tired that it was an effort to remain upright. “Now that you know what we’re up against, do you still want to see this through?”

“Hell, yes!” Buck said, anger ripping through his voice. “Though I got a few choice words I’d like to throw Travis’s way!”

“It’s not Orrin’s fault, Buck.” Chris recalled the strain and weariness he had seen in the AD’s face. “He’s been living with this for longer than we have.”

“Yeah, at least he’s still alive! You and Ez, and Vin –”

“Last I looked we were all still standin’, Bucklin.”

“Fer how damn long?” Buck fumed. “How the hell does he expect us to fight D’Amico with one hand tied behind our back and the other handcuffed to an anvil?” He started pacing, so agitated that it didn’t take more than four long strides to cover the length of Chris’s office.

Chris let him make three turns before he covered his eyes with his hands, dizzied by the big man’s agitation. Josiah stood up, breaking the path of Buck’s pacing. He set a hand on Buck’s arm and directed a meaningful look at Chris. “Think we need to give Chris a few minutes, brother.”

Chris looked up. “All of you, out. Go home. Eat something, get some sleep. We aren’t doing anything more tonight. If something comes up, I’ll call.”

Buck turned to him. “Where are you gonna be?”

Chris was about to answer that he would be staying at the office, when Vin spoke up.

“My place.” Chris arched a brow, questioning and Vin laughed softly. “Figure ol’ Troy’s got other things on his mind.”

The others rose, stretching out weary muscles, even JD, whose youthful spring seemed to have run down after the weeks of tension. Nathan called Rain on his cell phone to tell her that he was on his way home. She obviously asked him how Chris was, because he cast a wary glance at Larabee before replying softly that he seemed all right. Chris didn’t notice, but Vin saw the concern on Nathan’s face. He smiled slightly, assuring Jackson that he would keep an eye on Chris.

Buck laid a hand on JD’s shoulder and looked back at Ezra. “You comin’?”

“I-I thought I might take a room ...”

“Ya got a place with me n’ JD, Ez. I ain’t even changed the sheets, yet.”

“How can I refuse so gracious an invitation?” Ezra drawled, hoping to disguise the relief and gratitude in his voice. He didn’t, but Buck just grinned back at him as he headed out the door.

When he and Vin were alone, Chris slumped in his chair, his eyes closed, his hands clenched hard on the arms of his chair. He looked so haggard, so pale, that Vin didn’t even want to speak, as if the sound of his voice could hurt his friend. “You want one of those pills ya take, Chris?”

“Yeah. In the medicine chest. Imitrex.”

“I know. Seen ya take ‘em often enough.” He got the bottle and a glass of water, shook out a pill and opened Chris’s clenched hand. “Here. And drink.”

Chris obeyed, then grinned weakly. “Seems like we’ve got some role reversal going on here.”

“’Bout time, Larabee. Soon as ya feel better, we’ll get outta here. I’ll give ya a few while I check my mail.”

Chris barely had the strength to nod his head. He closed his eyes. He heard Vin’s quiet steps, then the sound of his fingers tapping his computer keyes. He didn’t drift off, but he tried some of the breathing exercises he recalled from the therapist he’d consulted – no, that Buck had forced him to consult – after Sarah and Adam’s deaths. His pulse finally slowed and the beat no longer felt like drums pounding in his skull. He didn’t want to move, but he didn’t want to stay there all night, either.

He stood up, went into his bathroom and cleaned up. He took his leather jacket from the hook on the wall and went into the outer office. Vin was hunched forward, his face illuminated by the light of his computer screen, his eyes narrowed and his lips moving as he sounded out the lines of text.

“Anything good?” Chris asked quietly.

Vin slewed around his his chair. “Not unless ya git yer rocks off over the latest update of the procedural manual .” He manipulated the windows on his screen, shutting it down. “Ya ready t’ git outta here?”

“Anytime you are.”

They locked up and retrieved the Ram from the garage. When they were finally inside Vin’s apartment, Chris started heading towards the couch. Vin caught his shoulders and steered him towards the bedroom. “Y’ain’t gonna git much sleep on the couch, cowboy.”

Chris was too tired to protest. He sank down on the bed, felt Vin pull off his boots. Then he tipped over onto the pillows and fell into the soft darkness waiting to envelop him.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra drank his third glass of Laphroig in bed, hoping that the liquor would relax him enough to let sleep claim him. He felt as if every nerve in his body was firing sparks through their synapses and he just wanted it to stop so he could sleep.

He didn’t have the excuse of utter physical exhaustion as he had the night before; he’d had plenty of rest and had spent most of the day in the office waiting for Chris and Vin to return from their reconnaissance. But that knowledge didn’t calm his nerves or prevent his mind from chasing down dark and unknown paths. He reached for the techno-thriller novel he had selected from JD’s shelves. It wasn’t his reading material of choice, but he was hoping it would be sufficiently boring and in combination with the scotch, would prove to be an effective soporific.

It worked. Between the techno-speak and the flat characterizations, his eyelids began to close and he reached to turn off the bedside lamp. He sank down against the pillows, settled the blanket over his shoulders. He was drifting off when his cell phone shrilled to life, startling him awake. He fumbled for it on the nightstand, his mind in a turmoil. Vin? Chris? Maude, forgetful of the time zones?

“Hello.”

“Death doesn’t always come in a bullet.” A soft raspy voice, low and hard. Then silence.

Ezra was now thoroughly awake. His hand shook slightly as he pressed the button for the caller ID. Unknown. He lay back against the pillows, listening to his heart pound. He tried to think logically, to replay the call in his mind. What had the caller said?

*Death doesn’t always come in a bullet.*

Meaning what?

He pulled the robe he borrowed from Buck over his shoulders and went down the hall to Buck’s door. He knocked, waited. Knocked again. “Buck!”

“What?” Cranky. The door cracked open and a sleepy blue eye peered out. “What’s goin’ on? Can’t sleep?”

“Yes, I awoke you from your slumber solely so you could keep me entertained in my insomniac state.”

“Sarcastic at this time of night, ain’t ya?” The door closed a bit, then opened again. Buck came out into the hallway. “So, what’s up?”

“I received a call on my cell phone. I don’t know what to make of it. Unknown caller. A message. ‘Death doesn’t always come with a bullet.’”

Buck looked at him. “Any chance you recognized the voice?” Ezra shot him a such a venomous look that Buck recanted. “Don’t suppose you did. So, ya got this call. You wanta tell Chris?”

“Do I want to wake Mr. Larabee from his undoubtedly much needed slumber to tell him I have received a cryptic phone call from an unidentified source in the middle of the night?”

Buck smiled. “Nope, I reckon ya don’t. And neither do I. First thing in the morning is something else, though. Think you can go back to sleep ‘til then?”

Ezra nodded. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing, partner.” Buck winked and closed the door. Ezra stood in the hall a moment before heading back to his room. Not even JD’s thriller could put him back to sleep before 3am.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The sounds of Chris moving about the apartment woke Vin up. He unstuck one eye. Dark but for the artificial light that shone through the blinds. He shoved the hair out of his eyes and sat up. “Chris? Y’all right?”

“Yeah. Go back to sleep.” His voice from the darkness sounded infinitely weary. Vin padded over to the hallway and waited for Chris to emerge from the bathroom. “You hungry?”

Chris came out into the hall. The light from the bathroom spilled over his hair, pale as tumbled straw. “You need t’sleep, Vin.”

“Like you?” Vin slanted a brow, and Chris gave him a ghost of a smile. “Thought so.” He headed off towards the kitchen, leaving Chris to follow.

He switched on the light, heard Chris cuss at the brightness and squinted at him. Larabee had thrown his hand over his eyes. He stumbled over to the breakfast bar and sat on a stool, keeping his head averted from the light. If Vin hadn’t known better, he would have said the man looked like had had just come off a three day bender.

“Didn’t that stuff ya took work?” he asked.

“Mostly.” Chris dropped his hand and blinked at him. “It’s three in the morning, and nothing feels real good right now.”

Vin ran the tap water until it was cold, filled a glass and dropped in an ice cube. “Start with this. Think you could handle some eggs?”

Chris nodded and sipped the water. “You think any more about tomorrow?”

“Hard to think of anything but.” Vin broke and scrambled four eggs in a bowl, put butter in a skillet to melt and put the eggs on to cook. “You?”

Chris laughed softly. “About the same. I keep going over the site. Trying to figure out what could happen, where it could happen, how it could happen.”

“No wonder ya got migraines.”

“It’s a wonder you don’t.”

Vin shrugged. “Got other problems instead.” He divided the eggs and set a plate and fork in front of Chris. He chewed on mouthful of eggs. “Seems like I’m missin’ part of a puzzle. I got one piece left and no matter which way I twist it, it don’t fit.”

“Maybe it will in the morning.” Chris scrubbed a hand over his face. “Lord, I’m tired.”

“Reckon we all are. Think we c’n hold on fer another day?”

Chris pushed away from the breakfast bar and stood, stretching out the kinks in his shoulders. “Don’t see that we have any other choice, partner. Thanks for the eggs.”

“Well, it ain’t goor-may cookin’,” Vin quipped. “G’night, or good mornin’, or whatever the hell it is at this time a’ day.”

Chris nodded and walked slowly down the hall to the bedroom. Vin returned to the couch, pulled the quilt Nettie had made for him over his shoulders and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris woke as the room slowly lightened from black, to dark gray, to pale blue. Deciding that sleep wouldn’t return, he slid from the bed and raised the blinds, bracing his forearms against the window sill and limbering up his back muscles. He straightened, did a series of long stretches and pulled on his jeans. Still barefoot and shirtless, he crossed silently into the living room.

The TV flickered soundlessly, CNN giving the early-morning news. Vin was sprawled face-down on the couch, his long hair tumbling across his cheek. One arm hung over the side of the cushions, the TV remote just beyond the reach of his lax fingers. Chris reached for the remote and slowly increased the volume until Vin stirred. He fumbled for the remote and when he didn’t find it, he pushed himself upright, sweeping the strands of his hair aside.

“Morning,” Chris said quietly.

Vin startled, slewed around too quickly and winced as his back tightened. “Hell, Larabee! Ya scared me.”

“That’s a first,” Chris grinned. “You get any sleep?”

“Guess so, else ya wouldn’t a’ been able to sneak up on me.” Tanner, grumpy that morning as usual and dragged down with exhaustion, wasn’t much up for conversation. He got himself upright and headed in the general direction of bathroom and bedroom. Chris went into the kitchen and started coffee brewing. His cell phone rang as he started rummaging through the refrigerator for breakfast.

“Larabee.”

“I am sorry to disturb you so early in the mornin’ ...”

“Morning, Ezra. Just spit it out.”

A moment of silence as Chris figured it was against Ezra’s nature to spit out anything without preamble. “I received a phone call last evenin’ which sounded suspiciously similar to the one Mr. Tanner and I received in the hospital.”

“What did it say?”

“Death does not always come with a bullet.”

“That’s it?”

“I regret to say it is. Unfortunately, since it was on my cell phone I have no way of tracing the call and no recording of it for Mr. Dunne to analyze.”

Chris rubbed his forehead and leaned against the counter. “Hell.”

“Indeed.”

“Thanks, Ezra. I’ll pass that on to Vin. We’ll meet you at the capitol in an hour.”

“We will be there, Mr. Larabee.”

Chris closed his phone. The coffee pot finished dripping with a final hiss of steam. He stared at it, not seeing anything but the darkness in his own mind.

“You gonna pour some a’ that or jist figger it’ll leap into the mug all by itself if ya glare at it hard enough?”

Chris blinked. “Funny.” Vin’s hair was still damp, but he was dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt. His returned Sig-Sauer was buckled in his shoulder holster. Chris found that sight reassuring. Balance returning to his team and to his life.

“Chris?”

“What?”

“Yer starin’ again, partner.” He took two mugs from the hooks over the sink and poured coffee. Sugar and milk in his, black for Chris. He handed Larabee the mug and raised a quizzical brow.

Chris took a sip of the hot coffee. “Ezra got another threatening call. Message was, ‘Death doesn’t always come with a bullet.’ Possibly the same caller as previously, but no way to check voice patterns.”

“Hmm.”

“Mean anything to you?”

Vin hitched a hip onto a barstool. “Could be a threat, could be a warning. Could be D’Amico thumbing his nose at us.”

Chris didn’t have a response. He drank some more coffee and set the mug down. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes. I told Ezra we’d meet him and the others at the capitol building.”

“Reckon that’ll do.” He watched Chris down the hall. Larabee was looking pretty thin these days. Hell, maybe they all were. His own jeans were hanging on his hips and he was beginning to wonder if there had ever been a time when he’d sat down and eaten a regular meal. The last one he rightly remembered had been that fancy Italian dinner at Caruso’s. Looked like he and Chris would be eating on the run again that morning. It was wearing on him and he didn’t like what it was doing to Chris.

One way or another, it would have to come to an end.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

They grabbed coffee and bagels from a shop on the way to the park surrounding the capitol where Travis was waiting with the other members of the team, FBI agents, and law enforcement officials.

Vin looked up at the sky. It was overcast, no shadows, virtually no wind. Perfect sniper weather. He had little confidence that they had found the sniper’s nest – it had all seemed too perfect. He’d wait to see what the lab had come up with on the DNA and fingerprint analysis, but he was willing to bet that they had been set up. D’Amico enjoyed playing with his prey, leading them to believe they were on the verge of winning, and then pushing them away, taunting their efforts. He shivered, rubbing his forearms, wishing he’d worn flannel instead of a thin denim shirt over his tee.

“Here,” Chris tossed an ATF sweatshirt at him. “Don’t leave home without it.”

Vin laughed. “Thanks.” He pulled it over his head, dug in his pocket for the leather thong he used to tie his hair back. He looped it around the thick tail of hair, wrapped and knotted it. Buck came over and held out a long black leather rifle case.

“I thought ya might be lookin’ fer this.”

Vin took the weight in his hands, hefted it, smiled slightly when he realized that Chris was watching him. “Almost feels good.”

“Let’s find Travis,” Chris growled. He didn’t like it that Vin made an easy target with the M24 SWS cradled in his arms. “Can’t you make that a little less obvious?” he whispered grimly.

Vin raised a brow. “Ya worried about me, pard?” When Chris didn’t answer, he smirked and dropped the gun against his side, shielding it from plain view. “Better?”

Chris failed to see the humor. He glared back. “Thanks.”

Vin gave him a nod, tilted his head a bit. “It’s m’job, Chris. Jist let me worry about it, okay?”

Orrin Travis was walking towards them, followed by a team of soberly dressed agents trailing him in a phalanx. He stopped about five paces from Chris and squinted up at the golden dome of the capitol building. They were at the front, formal portico. Behind them, an emerald green sweep of lawn flowed down a hillside to the formal gardens that surrounded the park. All vehicle access to the front of the building had been blocked, but the two major traffic arteries alongside the capitol had been allowed to remain open, if heavily guarded by motorcycle patrols and mounted police.

Travis nodded his approval. “Looks good.”

“You think?” Chris asked dourly. “I feel like I’m in a shooting gallery.” His sea-green gaze swept along the horizon of office buildings that surrounded the capitol.

Travis frowned. “I thought that had been covered.”

Vin stepped forward. “Unless you got a guard at every window in every building or on every rooftop, that’s a mighty reckless assumption t’make.”

Travis’s expression hardened. “I’ve done the best I can with what Washington has seen fit to give me. God help us if it’s not enough.”

Chris was smart enough not to reply that it wasn’t enough, it was *never* enough when the lives of his men were at stake. He glanced at his watch. Two hours until the dignitaries started gathering on the portico. The shooting gallery analogy struck him once again, making him shiver.

Vin stood next to him, their shoulders just brushing. “Reckon I’d better start my sweep.”

“Yeah. Check in, okay?”

“Oh, I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Think I might take up a stand on that roof where we were yesterday. Somethin’ about that place ...”

“Vin ...” Quizzical blue eyes met his. All the words of caution he wanted to say weren’t enough. He held out his hand and Vin’s strong fingers closed over his forearm. Tanner just smiled, a slight tug of the lips before he released Chris’s arm. Then he was walking away, light and easy as if the idea of a man in the crosshairs of his rifle scope had never haunted him.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin stood on the rooftop of the office building, the small red x that marked the sniper’s firing position directly in front of him. Curious, he took out his rifle and set it there; the masonry wall was a perfect height to use as a rest, a bit too high for his liking, but that just told him that whoever had chosen the site was a taller man than he was. Not Ronnie Fazio, that was sure. Fazio didn’t have the height for that position or the temperament to be a sniper. Leaning slightly forward, bracing his knee against the wall, his other leg planted firmly to anchor his body, he peered through the scope.

Everything showed in sharp relief: the facade of the capitol, the podium set up for the speakers, the flags hanging limp on their staffs. A minute shift of his head, and Orrin Travis’s face was in his cross-hairs, clear and close as if Vin could reach out to touch him, and next to the AD, Chris. Pale light glinting on pale hair, his features taut and fine, the jumping nerve in his jaw betraying his nerves to Vin’s eyes. He shaded his eyes with his hands and turned, looking up at the building as if he had heard Vin speak his name.

Vin’s vision blurred and he pulled back from the scope, blinking. Damn sweat ... He stripped off the sweatshirt and dropped it to the roof. He drew a forearm over his eyes, clearing them. Yeah, this would have been a perfect emplacement for a sniper ... but so would have about ten other buildings in the vicinity. Why this one? Vin wondered.

He thumbed his cell phone open and pushed Chris’s number. Six stories beneath him, he saw the blond reach in his pocket. “Chris?” Before Larabee could speak, he asked, “Who owns this building?”

He saw the slow horror dawning as Chris slowly lowered the phone from his ear, watched as he motioned for JD to get the hell over to him, saw him speak to the young agent, and then JD dashed off for the van where the communications equipment and his laptop were kept. He was back quickly, but to Vin it had seemed an eternity waiting, listening to Chris breathe over the phone. JD gesticulated widely and Chris spun back to look up at the rooftop.

“Get down from there, NOW!”

“Chris?”

“Damn it, Vin! D’Amico –”

He turned, his balance slightly thrown off by shock and the weight of his rifle. Too late he saw the stairwell door swing open, too late, saw the flash of metal in sunlight and Ronnie Fazio charge out swinging a weighted sap. Before he could throw up an arm in defense, the sap connected soundly with the side of his skull and he went down, boneless and bleeding, his rifle sliding across the gravel and tar to rest at Troy D’Amico’s feet.

D’Amico knelt beside the semi-conscious agent and pried the cell phone from his fingers. “Mr. Larabee?” he said. “You will do exactly as I say or Ronnie Fazio will execute Agent Tanner. Is that clear?”

Through the ringing in his ears and the blinding pain, Vin held on to the thread of D’Amico’s voice. “C-Chris?” he tried to say, but his lips felt numb and his tongue thick, like he’d been drugged.

He must have made some sound, for D’Amico laughed softly. “You heard that, Agent Larabee? He’s alive, for now. However, I don’t know how long I will be able to restrain Ronnie’s less civilized instincts.”

Vin tried to imagine Chris’s part of the conversation. He wanted to tell him to do what he had to do to keep the investigation intact, to worry about the others. He could take care of himself.

Right ...

He opened his eyes. Not a good idea. Fazio grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and dragged him upright. He wrapped the long hank of Vin’s ponytail around his fist and pulled hard, stretching out Vin’s throat and held a cold blade to his skin. “I’ve been looking forward to this, Tanner. Now, walk real slow. Any fast moves and you’ll bleed to death in ten seconds. You got that?”

“Yeah,” Vin managed to rasp out. The numbness was receding, but the blood from the cut made by the sap was still dripping freely down his collar. Fazio guided him back inside the building. They were inside the mechanical plant where the air conditioning, electrical, and water filtration systems were located. Pipes and conduit lined the walls, and the sound of the machinery throbbed all around them. Vin could scream his head off and nobody would hear him, he could die here, and nobody would come for him.

Or he could fight.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Orrin Travis watched in alarm as Chris Larabee’s expression changed from anxious to murderous; the blood draining from his face and his lips thinning into a feral snarl of rage.

“I don’t know if you’re just plain stupid, or if you *want* us to file federal charges which could include capital murder, D’Amico. Let Agent Tanner go, and we’ll talk our way out of this.”

Travis gesticulated a cut across his throat, indicating that Larabee should get off the line ASAP. Chris held up a hand, indicating that he understood. “Listen, I’m not authorized to negotiate this, but –”

“Negotiate?” D’Amico’s laugh trickled like cold water down his spine. “No, Agent Larabee. There is no negotiation. Vin Tanner is, at this moment, in the tender care of Ronnie Fazio. I don’t have to tell you what that means, do I?”

Chris closed his eyes, sickness eating away at him. “What do you want?” he asked thickly.

“I want the little presentation to go on as scheduled, that is all.”

“What?”

The phone went silent. “Sonofabitch!” Chris cursed. “He’s got Vin,” he said savagely to Travis. “That goddamned, murdering bastard has *Vin*!” He slapped the cell phone shut and reached for the gun strapped in his shoulder holster.

Travis grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to get Vin –”

“Like hell you are, Agent Larabee!” Travis’s stern voice halted him. “First, you are going to tell me every word that D’Amico said. Then we will work out a plan. You go charging in there like a lit-up stick of dynamite, we’ll never get him back alive!”

Every instinct in Chris was screaming to run, to take off, to do *anything* to get Vin out of D’Amico’s clutches, but something of Travis’s cool logic stayed him in his tracks. He turned back slowly, nodding his comprehension.

“Good. Did he say what he wanted?”

“He wants the press conference to go on as planned.”

“That’s it?”

Chris’s eyes hardened. “When you put that together with Ezra’s phone call --”

“What phone call?”

“The one he got that said ‘Death doesn’t always come with a bullet.’” He watched Travis’s expression change from puzzlement to alarm. “Yeah, I figured the same thing. It isn’t a sniper we have to worry about now.”

Travis got on his phone and called the Denver PD to tell them to get the bomb squad over to the capitol immediately. He ordered a helicopter up to survey the surrounding rooftops and mobilized an extended blockade of motor traffic.

All of that took time, not much, but time that Chris felt slipping through his fingers like water, never to be retrieved. He saw Buck coming towards him, JD in tow, and tried to arrange his face in a less angry expression.

Buck saw, though, and came to such a rapid halt that JD nearly ran into his back. “What is it?” he asked, reading Chris’s rage and worry. “Junior?”

“D’Amico has him.”

“Fuck! How the hell did that happen?”

“The sniper nest was a ruse, a set-up. D’Amico owns the building and he just waltzed up there with Ronnie Fazio and caught Vin flat.”

“You talk to him?”

“Vin? No. I heard his voice. He sounded ... he sounded hurt.”

Buck snarled a threat so obscene that JD blanched, and even Chris was rocked back by the big man’s anger. Chris found himself in the unfamiliar position of holding somebody else back from taking rash action. He took hold of Buck’s arm. “He’s hurting, but he’s alive. And I don’t know anybody more tenacious than Vin Tanner. We’ll get there.”

“You b’lieve that?” Buck said. “I don’t trust Ronnie Fazio an inch.”

“You think I do?”

The sound of sirens heralded the arrival of the bomb squad. Chris pulled his gun from the holster. “Sounds like the cavalry’s here.”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Travis barked.

“You wanted a plan? Well, here it is. You’ve got men, you’ve got the bomb squad. You worry about that. I’m getting Vin out. Buck, you with me?”

“The hell I am!” Wilmington’s blue eyes were lit with the fire of battle-joy, jolting Chris into the memory of what it had been like to fight with Buck next to him when they were in the SEALs. Nobody was better in a fight than Buck.

“Let’s bring him out,” Chris said, echoing the SEAL creed to never leave a comrade behind, alive or dead.

Travis knew they were beyond stopping, and he had no inclination to try. He met Chris’s level, determined gaze. “Go on, son. Take care of your own.” He watched them lope off, falling into old patterns that had never faded. Now he had to find some way to keep the other volatile members of the team from joining the rescue of their hostage sharpshooter.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

There was no escape from the steady throb and hum of the machinery. Vin felt it through all his body; head, throat, heart. His stomach was queasy and he couldn’t tell if it was from the pain in his head or the disorienting sounds that surrounded him. Ronnie was training a nasty-looking Ruger on him. He had stuck the knife carelessly and temptingly in his belt, but at the moment Vin felt so uncertain and woozy that going for it just seemed like a bad idea.

Chris knew he was in trouble. He could wait. He could be patient. Question was, could Ronnie? He was already looking jumpier than any man holding a gun ought to be. Vin figured any move on his part would set off that twitchy trigger finger, and the smartest thing he could do was to make Ronnie believe that *nothing* was going to happen.

Vin swayed slightly and passed a hand over his forehead. “Ya mind if I sit down fer a bit? I’m feelin’ kinda dizzy.” Even as he spoke, he let his knees buckle beneath him and slid slowly down the wall at his back to the ground. The relief he felt at being off his feet wasn’t entirely a ruse. Might give him a chance to catch his breath, recover a bit of strength, buy some more time.

Fazio’s hand had jerked at the motion, but he didn’t fire. He just stood looking at Vin like he was an interesting kind of bug; one that he hadn’t decided whether to squash beneath his heel or impale on a pin for his collection. Either way was just as dead.

“I didn’t see no sniper on that roof,” Vin said casually. “Yer plans change?”

“Shut up, Tanner.”

“Guess things ain’t goin’ exactly how ya wanted ‘em to. Troy must be ready t’spit nails.”

Fazio’s eyes darted nervously around the room. He looked at Tanner slumped against the wall, pale and bleeding, eyes slightly unfocused; but a wounded wolf was still dangerous and Fazio wasn’t taking chances. He took a step towards Tanner. “You talk too much.”

“You expectin’ company?” Vin asked. “Think ol’ Troy’ll show up here? I ain’t worth a rat’s ass t’him, and I ain’t so sure he thinks too highly a’ you. Know fer a fact he wouldn’t if he knew you was sendin’ little clues to th’enemy ...”

Incoherent with rage, Fazio leapt toward Vin’s throat, fastening hard fingers around Vin’s windpipe, cutting off his air and breath. With black specks floating in front of his eyes, no wind in his lungs, and feeling like his ribs were stove in under Fazio’s weight, Vin fumbled for the knife he knew was in Fazio’s belt. His seeking fingers found the hilt, he pulled the blade out, tried to reverse it to thrust up into Ronnie’s gut. Before he could complete the action, Fazio released his throat, grabbed his hand and banged it hard against the concrete floor. Pain zinged through Vin's wrist, numbed his hand. He felt his grip weakening. He brought his knee up, tried to drive it into Fazio’s groin.

Either he was too weak, or Ronnie was trickier than he’d expected. He jammed his knee between their bodies. He managed to buy himself a bit of breathing room and drew in a great, hoarse gasp of air. He stretched out his hand, tried to find the knife, and cried out in pain as a heavy foot trod on his wrist. He felt a bone crunch and gasped. The black specks returned in force. He closed his eyes, fighting nausea and fear.

Fazio stood up, rubbing his thigh where Vin’s knee had impacted. He looked up at Troy D’Amico. “Thanks, boss.”

Troy just looked at him with cold killer’s eyes and passionless expression. “Tanner’s right, Ronnie. You are a little shit.” He glanced down at Vin, who was trying not to writhe in pain as D’Amico’s weight pressed harder on his wrist. “At least he has the virtue of being loyal. You – you’ve been playing me for a fool for a long time, haven’t you? Making phone calls you thought I didn’t know about. Here’s news, Ronnie. I knew. I knew you were going to double-cross me and go for everything.”

Fazio shivered. “It wasn’t like that, Mr. D’Amico. It was just a bit of fun ... playing with the feds, making ‘em crazy.” D’Amico was unmoved and Ronnie cringed. “I killed Ed Williams for you,” he whined.

D’Amico laughed. “You killed him because he knew what you were trying to do and he was about to back out.”

“He was gonna go back to the feds. Come clean. Tear you’re whole fuckin’ plan apart. I *saved* you, Troy. I did!”

“You don’t see farther than your own greed, Ronnie. Don’t get all noble with me. I know what you are ... I’ve always known. Too bad, Ronnie. You should have stayed with me.” With an expression on his face that was nearly pity, he raised his gun.

The sound of machinery grinding to a halt distracted him. Dimly, through pain and still trying to sort out what D’Amico and Fazio were saying, Vin thought of the elevator. God!

Chris!

He swung over to his side, grabbed D’Amico’s ankle and tried to jerk him off balance. There wasn’t enough weight or strength behind his motion to pull him over, but he made D’Amico lurch as he fired. Fazio went down with a grunt, falling heavily over Vin’s legs as D’Amico pulled free and ran up the steps to the roof.

“ATF! ATF! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!” Buck roared and burst through the door in a firing stance, clearing the way for Chris to follow. He jerked to a stop. “Vin!” Chris sidestepped him neatly, paused in consternation when he saw Vin prone.

Vin waved him off. “D’Amico’s up on th’roof,” he gasped. “Go! ‘M’alright –” Vin broke off, coughing, struggling to pull away from Fazio’s body across his legs. “Buck, git this sack a’shit off me. Larabee!” He called up after Chris, “He’s got a gun!”

“Easy, son. Easy. Let me do the work.” Buck took hold of Fazio’s body, turned it.

The gleam of a dark eye, the movement of a hand, and before Vin could cry out a warning, Fazio fired. Blood misted as the slug tore into Buck’s body. The big man’s eyes widened in shock and he dropped to his knees, toppling over with a soft sigh.

Fazio staggered to his feet, blood dripping from his fingers. He seemed dazed; he just stood over Buck’s body like the agent was his prize kill. Vin saw Buck’s chest move. He was alive! But not for long if Ronnie had his way. With the grace and instinct of the predator he was, Vin reached for the knife he had dropped. His body coiled and he rolled to a crouch.

Fazio turned to him. His gun hand came up as Vin surged up from his stance with the knife clutched in his right hand. He had been well trained to kill. The blade slid unerringly into Fazio’s flesh, angling beneath the breastbone and ripping through the tough tissue of the diaphragm to still his beating heart.

But death didn’t come swiftly enough to stop the last twitch of Fazio’s trigger finger. He fired even as the tip of the knife tore into his heart. Vin felt the hot blast of the powder, the punch of the bullet in his side. He held on, shoved that knife deeper into Fazio’s chest and then stepped back as he fell, dead before his body hit the ground.

Vin stared down at him. The lethal stroke had been so swift that very little blood had pumped out; just a tiny crimson blotch surrounded the knife blade. It was a clean kill. Vin pressed his hand to his side. It throbbed like living fire, but he took the fact that he was still standing to be a sign that he wasn’t too bad off. “Bucklin –” He dropped down beside his friend. There was a bullet wound high on his chest. He was bleeding freely, but breathing deep and steady. Vin took off his denim shirt and thankful that it was an old one, so thin that it was nearly parting on its own, ripped the sleeve out of the seam, folding it in a pad and packing it tightly into the wound. “You hang on there, pard. You hang on.”

Wilmington’s blue eyes opened wide with pain. “Vin –”

“Don’t waste yer breath. I’m fine.” The lie only succeeded because Buck was too weak to argue and couldn’t see the blood seeping through the dark cotton t-shirt Vin wore.

Panic made Wilmington struggle to sit up. “Chris!” he gasped, fighting against Vin’s hand on his shoulder.

Vin pressed harder and Buck yielded. “You stay here. I’m goin’ after Chris. You stay put, ya hear?” Fiercely, trying to impose his will on Buck and quell any ideas the man had about going after Larabee. Pain must have gotten through because Buck’s body suddenly went limp. He lay back down and grimaced.

“You git him, Vin. Shoot the fuckin’ heart outta his chest fer me.” He pressed his service revolver into Vin’s hand.

Vin nodded. He stood up, tried to straighten, caught his breath as pain shot up his side. His t-shirt was soaked with blood and the slow chill growing in him wasn’t something he wanted to think on. His left wrist hurt fiercely and he could feel it swelling; the bone was either cracked or broken outright, but at least it wasn’t through the skin. Something else he didn’t want to think on. Right now, he had to get to that roof. He took Buck’s service revolver and hauled his way up the steps.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

It was chaos on the ground. The bomb squad boiled out of their trucks, armed with sensors and dogs. The US Marshals had arrived to take care of the governor and the other dignitaries, and the press conference was called off, leaving the media to deal with air time. This was a feast for them, breaking news far more ratings-worthy than the announcement of a task force.

Orrin Travis stood like a rock amid the chaos. He saw Mary hurrying towards him, a cameraman in tow. “Not now!” he snapped, bringing her up short.

“Go on, Tom. Set up with the others,” she directed calmly. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve got a situation here. I don’t have time for this.”

“Where’s Chris?”

“I wish I knew,” he growled. “Mary –”

“There’s a rumor that a government agent has been taken hostage. Is it true?” Her blue eyes were wide, something more than journalistic curiosity making her voice quiver.

“It’s not Chris,” Travis said. He took her arm. “Get back with the others, Mary. This area isn’t secure.” It wasn’t a request, and Mary retreated to the barricades that had been set up for crowd control.

Ten minutes! Where the hell was Larabee?

“Judge!” JD Dunne’s clear voice cut through the noise. The young agent came running up to him. “Just got a report from one of the helicopters.” He handed Travis a headset. “You can hear what’s going on.”

Travis got the headset on in time to hear the pilot shout. “Subject on the roof! Subject has a gun. Repeat, subject is armed. ATF agent has exited to the roof. Shots have been fired! Agent down! Agent down! Jesus ...” before static overwhelmed the transmission. From the look on JD’s face, he’d heard the same thing. His face went white, freckles like dust against the pallor.

The earpiece crackled to life. The pilot’s voice had a thin, strained note to it. Shock maybe. “Subject has taken the ATF agent. Repeat, we have a hostage situation. Repeat, we have a hostage situation.”

“Aw shit. Aw... shit,” JD whispered. Nearly a sob. He ripped the headset off and shoved it into Travis’s hands. “I gotta get over there.”

Travis didn’t try to stop him. The boy’s whole world was frozen in place until he knew. Tanner, Larabee, Wilmington.

God.

Travis got on the radio, ordering units to the scene; even as he ran towards the street; his mind knowing but refusing to acknowledge that he might have just lost the heart of Team Seven.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris came through the door leading to the roof, his gun ready to fire, his heart pounding and his breath strangling in his throat. The adrenaline rush of the hunt shot through him like a drug. He bent low, making himself a smaller target for any assailant waiting for him.

Nothing. Just the sound of traffic in the distance, the wail of sirens, the faint crunch of gravel despite his care in walking. A slight wind kicked up, ruffling his hair. The large AC units on the roof were humming; waves of heat rising from the exhaust fans shimmered in the air. Chris couldn’t see around the corner of the unit nearest him and despite the cover it provided he felt exposed and vulnerable.

He moved out cautiously, ranging close to the boxy air conditioning units and structural components that made a maze of the central roof area. The gravel surface grated beneath his boots, mocking his attempted stealth. Trying not to breathe like he’d just run the hundred meters, he pressed flat against the metal housing of one of the larger units. It vibrated through his spine like a shiver of warning.

The scrape of a sound behind him sent him diving for cover. His elbows skidded on the cindery gravel, driving splinters into his skin. The first bullet scored the side of his skull with a hot burn of metal on flesh. A second shot shaved a chunk of concrete off the wall next to him. It slashed across his forehead, and his blood welled up instantly; the warmth scrawling down his neck and sheeting down his forehead and cheek. Half blinded by blood and pain, he rolled to his feet, firing in the direction of his assailant.

“D’Amico!” he yelled. He turned blindly in a circle, trying to sense the other shooter’s position. He felt the presence of another body behind him. Blinking hard to clear his eyes, he swung out wildly, connecting with muscle and bone in a solid punch that dropped the man to his knees. Chris swiped a sleeve across his eyes. Blurred vision, but enough to see Troy D’Amico crouched down, protecting his ribs. Chris leveled his pistol.

“Drop your weapon!” he ordered. D’Amico turned his head and looked at Chris with hate and despair in his eyes. But he laid his gun down and Chris kicked it away. “Get up. Slowly.”

D’Amico did, uncoiling and staggering to his feet. He swayed slightly; his hands held away from his body. Chris wiped his eyes with one hand, keeping his gun trained on D’Amico with the other. *Too easy,* he thought. It couldn’t end like this ...

And then two gunshots broke the silence on the rooftop.

Reflexive and unavoidable, Chris had to turn his head, the streaming blood making it nearly impossible to keep D’Amico in his peripheral field of vision. Those few seconds – no more than two heartbeats -- cost Chris dearly. D’Amico clasped his fists, brought them up in a cracking blow to Chris’s chin, and dropped him like a log.

Chris’s head exploded in fire and stars. He felt the shock in every nerve of his body. Consciousness faded briefly; he lost himself in darkness and too soon came back to gray awareness and unrelenting pain. He moved weakly on the tarred gravel, seeking his gun like a blind man looking for scattered pearls.

A hard hand twisted in his collar, jerking him up upright, dragging him to his feet. The cold steel of a gun dug cruelly into his jaw. Chris tried to claw at the constricting band of his collar, at D’Amico’s hand. D’Amico shoved him hard against a concrete barrier. Chris’s head cracked against the surface and he slid to his knees.

D’Amico looked down at him, bloodied and gasping for breath, and a slow, taunting smile curled his thin lips. “The odds change, Agent Larabee. I’m the one dealing from a position of strength, now. I’d be willing to bet you’ll negotiate with your life on the line.”

“It’s over,” Chris gasped. “Give it up.” He struggled to speak. “You can walk out of here or get carried out in a body bag. Your choice.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” D’Amico grabbed his shoulder roughly. “You *will* get me out of here, willing or not.” He pulled Chris to his feet and with the gun jammed in his ribs led him to the wall running along the edge of the roof. “Raise your arms, Agent Larabee. Get their attention. Let them see you.”

Chris looked over the wall. Beneath him, he could see police cars arrayed in ranks surrounding the building. Dark sedans that were FBI and ATF vehicles. The squat tank of the bomb disposal unit. Uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives, agents. “You’ll never get out of here, D’Amico.”

Troy D’Amico pinned him against the parapet and patted him down until he found the cell phone in his jacket. He checked the last number and dialed it. “Travis, if you want Larabee and your other men, I’ve got some terms for you to consider.” He pressed Chris closer to the wall. “As you can see, Larabee’s alive. I wouldn’t hold out much hope for the others. You don’t listen – all I have to do is pull the trigger and you’ll have three dead agents.”

Chris jerked in D’Amico’s hold. “Don’t listen to him, Orrin! Vin’s –” D’Amico grabbed and handful of Chris’s hair and slammed him down against the concrete wall. He was able to turn his head slightly, taking the brunt on the blow on the hard ridge of his orbital bone rather than full face. The aggregate was sharp, cutting into his skin and pain shot through his cheek and eye socket. He crumpled, darkness swirling, and knew nothing more.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin held Buck’s pistol in his right hand and instinctively reached for the metal rail to pull himself up the stairs with his left, remembering too late that there were broken bones in there. He bit back a cry of pain, and a rush of nausea made his knees tremble. He *had* to get to the roof even if he had to crawl up the damn stairs. He stuck the pistol in the waistband of his jeans and closed his right hand over the rail. With all the grit and willpower in him, he hauled himself up the stairwell.

By the time he reached the door, he was shaking and sweating. His t-shirt clung to his ribs, wet with sweat and blood. Perspiration dripped from his hairline. He swept his arm across his forehead and steeled himself to open the door slowly and quietly. He tried to envision the rooftop; where he would come out, what cover he would have. How to use surprise to his advantage.

Then he heard the gunshot and everything but getting to Chris went out of his head. He put his shoulder hard against the cold metal door. It was heavy and he didn’t have enough weight or strength in him to overcome its ponderous swing. He braced his weak legs and shoved.

Even the overcast-dimmed sunlight made him wince. He scanned the rooftop quickly. The maze of metal and concrete cluttered his visual field. Sometimes one sense had to be isolated and another focused. He closed his eyes, listened, sorting out the sounds. He heard more noise than he would have liked, caught one sound that he knew too well -- Chris’s voice. He couldn’t catch the words but he homed in on the direction.

He crept across the gravel, saw his rifle where Fazio had kicked it away from his hand. A low, venomous chuckle filled his throat. He dropped low, sprinted across to where it lay and retrieved it. He knew he couldn’t rely on being able to shoot Buck’s pistol accurately; the recoil was more suited to Wilmington’s big wrists and hands. His own piece, he could *feel* and knew how it would fire.

He eased around the corner of an air conditioning unit and his breath caught in a hiss. D’Amico had Chris up against the waist-high wall enclosing the roof, shoving him hard, a knee at his back, a gun in one hand, a cell phone in the other.

*God, Chris, don’t do anything ... I’m here.* Like Larabee could hear him. He brought the rifle up to his hip, balanced the weight on the ridge of bone, then leveled the barrel on his forearm as he braced the stock on his shoulder.

“Don’t listen to him, Orrin! Vin’s –” Chris shouted out, and Vin winced. Damn Larabee for not knowing when to lie low.

D’Amico slammed Chris’s face into the wall and Vin didn’t even have to think about his next move. He shot the bolt lever on the rifle, not bothering to mute the sound. He wanted D’Amico to see him. Look him in the eye. Watch death come to him.

Larabee’s body slid from D’Amico’s hold in a boneless slump. Vin saw the blood sheeting Chris’s face and felt rage spill through him. He straightened, took a step into light from shadow.

“Drop it, Troy, ‘less yer lookin’ fer a bullet.” His voice sounded thin in the air. There was a helicopter above him, descending low enough for the downdraft from the rotors to stir dust from the rooftop and swirl through his hair. It snatched his words away, but it didn’t matter.

Troy D’Amico saw him standing there, slight and bloodied, the rifle slanted over his forearm and death in his eyes.

Endgame.

He feinted a movement of surrender and then with sudden, murderous intent, turned his gun towards Chris Larabee.

Without thought, without emotion, without remorse, Vin squeezed the trigger on the rifle. He didn’t aim consciously; he hurt too much and was too shaky for true accuracy. He just had to stop D’Amico.

The first shot caught D’Amico high on the right shoulder; not a killing shot, but destroying the nerves and muscles that controlled his gun hand. The second blossomed crimson on his chest, the force of the hit spinning him back against the wall.

There was a break in the concrete where a drainpipe ran from the condensers to feed into a gutter. Not even a foot wide, the gap was shielded by a strip of black plastic netting as a precautionary measure. It was not meant to take the full weight of a man’s body driven against it by force. It was brittle from too much sun and heat, already weak when Troy’s body spun against it. The plastic broke away from the concrete, and D’Amico teetered on the brink, his arms windmilling wildly in a futile attempt to catch his balance. Vin dove forward, his arm outstretched to grab D’Amico before he could fall. His knuckles brushed against the linen suit jacket, his fingers closed over the lapel.

For two seconds, his eyes held Troy D’Amico’s. Two seconds staring into an infinity of darkness. Then D’Amico willfully leaned backwards into the gap.

“NO!” Vin screamed. But his damaged hand was weak, and D’Amico had nothing to live for. The fabric slipped through Vin’s fingers and Troy D’Amico fell away, down and down, to hell.

“No!” Vin sobbed. Angry that he couldn’t have had some part of D’Amico, angry that the man couldn’t have been brought to trial, that he had been forced to shoot at all. He fell to his knees, coughing and gagging, his breath stripped away. As much as he had wanted D’Amico dead, he had wanted so much more for the team, for Ezra, for Chris. He’d wanted to watch Travis skewer D’Amico to the wall and make him squirm. He’d wanted D’Amico to suffer.

He sat there shivering until a sound, a low moan, broke through his daze. Chris was moving weakly, his hands scraping over the rough, splintered cinders on the roof.

Vin crawled over to him, grabbed his hands to still them. Carefully, he turned Chris over, sickened by the blood and the damage done to his face. He was crying, couldn’t seem to stop ...

“Vin?” Chris tried to open his eyes, but the side of his face felt like a balloon was slowly inflating beneath the skin, and only his left eye seemed to be working well enough to focus. The white blur floating in space slowly resolved itself into familiar features.

He reached up a hand to touch Vin’s face and felt tears on his fingertips. Alive, he thought. Alive ... and drifted away ...

Vin wanted to move. He wanted to call for help, for back-up. He wanted to breathe, but suddenly that all seemed as possible as water from the moon. Pain, which he had been holding at bay by sheer willpower, overwhelmed him and he slumped forward, falling across Chris’s chest with a soft exhalation of surrender.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Orrin Travis followed Josiah Sanchez as he made a path through a quickly gathering crowd of spectators. They wouldn’t come out to hear the governor speak, but they sure as hell turned out as soon as they heard the police helicopters overhead. One look at the tall, broad-chested man with the set, heavy jaw of a prizefighter and they parted like the Red Sea. The earpiece continued to crackle with static – something was interfering with the connection – or maybe it was just bad equipment. Angrily, Travis tore it from his head and shoved it into the hands of the agent next to him. He was nearly to the police line that had been established outside the office building where D’Amico was holed up when the crowd gave a collective gasp of horror. There was a sickening crunch of glass and metal, followed by shocked screams.

*Dear God!* He couldn’t see over the heads of the crowd and the white-helmeted line of policemen blocking the way. “Josiah!” he shouted. “What the hell is going on?”

Sanchez turned, his face strained. “A man fell, sir. From the roof. I-I’m sorry, I don’t know ...”

Travis shoved Josiah aside and thrust his badge at the nearest policeman. “Let me through!” he snapped.

“Sir, the scene isn’t clear –”

“I am ATF Assistant Director Orrin Travis. Those are *my* men up in that building. *My* team in there fighting for their lives.” He glared at the policeman.

“Sorry, sir. I sure hope that wasn’t one of your men fell off that roof.”

“So do I, son. So do I.”

He made his way to the barricade of yellow tape. As he emerged, JD and Ezra ran up to him, followed by Nathan. “Judge, we’re going up there, now,” Ezra said tersely. “Troy D’Amico has seen fit to take a swan dive off the parapet.”

“D’Amico?” Relief washed through Travis. “You’re sure?”

“Most certainly, seein’ as I was only ten feet away from the Mercedes that was the point of impact. Pity. It was a lovely car.” Ezra’s soft drawl might as well have uttered an obscenity. His face was set like granite, his eyes glittering as he slapped a clip into his sidearm. “Gentlemen, as Mr. Larabee would say were he here -- Let’s ride.”

If any of them felt awkward about Ezra assuming the mantle of command, their doubts were well hidden. Travis caught his arm. “Wait.” He pointed at the policeman who had spoken to him. “I want three officers with them. You, and two others.”

“Yes, sir.” He wasn’t about to tell the steely-eyed man giving the orders that maybe it wasn’t his jurisdiction.

Travis continued to hold Ezra back until the agent raised a quizzical brow. “Agent Standish, do not *assume* that D’Amico’s death has rendered this situation harmless, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” For once, Ezra was perfectly serious. “I understand.” Travis released him, and Ezra moved off, followed by Nathan, JD, and the three policemen. They vanished into the building and Josiah came to Travis’s side. He handed him an earpiece and a small microphone to clip on his lapel.

“From JD. He’s wired.”

Travis uttered a silent thanks for the young agent’s forethought. He just hoped this device worked better than the last one. He hooked it over his ear. He heard JD’s breathless voice first. “We’re heading up on the elevator to the top floor. So far, haven’t seen anybody or anything. Place seems to be deserted.”

“Agent Dunne, do you read me?”

“Yes, sir. No trouble here.”

“Good. Just keep talking, son. Make me feel like I’m right there with you.”

“We’re here, sir. Ezra and the cops are scoping out the hallway – looks empty. Nobody here.”

Travis heard Ezra’s voice, couldn’t quite catch the words as he said something to JD. From the change in JD’s voice, he knew they were on the move. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Sir, we’re trying the freight elevator that runs to the power and water plant on the roof.” JD’s reply was followed by a dull thud as the doors were closed, the faint hum of the motor lifting the elevator. “They’re securing the floor ...”

“Nathan! JD!” Ezra’s voice sounded unnaturally strained even filtered through the electronics.

Then a moment later, JD’s shocked gasp. “Jesus, Buck!”

“Talk to me!” Travis was nearly shouting with frustration. He shoved through the lines of police, EMS crews, and FBI agents. “Josiah!” he grabbed the tall agent. “Get up there.”

“Sir?”

“We have at least one agent down. Buck Wilmington.”

*Lord, oh, Lord.* Josiah uttered an invocation. Travis was talking to the senior FBI man on the scene. He passed over the microphone Dunne had given to him. Then, drawing his own weapon, he nodded to Josiah. The two men slipped under the yellow tape blocking the door to the building and headed towards the elevator bays.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra rounded the corner from the elevator bay to the large room housing the power, hydraulic, and water pumping system. The cement block walls were bare, the floor was hard concrete. The thrum and throb of machinery was disorienting until he adjusted to it. He waved the cops ahead, heard one of them call out urgently, “Agent Standish!”

He bolted ahead of JD and Nathan, his gun drawn, then halted so quickly that he nearly slipped on the slick concrete. Two bodies. One of them, Ronnie Fazio’s, had a knife sticking out of his chest. Buck Wilmington was half-propped up against a wall. The upper left shoulder of his shirt was bloody, he was pale as death, but his eyes were open and he was trying to shove the policeman out of his way as he struggled to get up.

Ezra knelt beside him and forced him back with a rather ruthless push of his hand against his uninjured shoulder. “Stay still! Nathan, JD! Over here!” His voice echoed hollowly around the concrete walls.

“Vin ... Chris ...” Buck gasped. “Roof ... Heard shots a while ago –”

Ezra looked at the cops. “Get up there. Be careful. Was there anybody else besides D’Amico, Buck?”

Wilmington’s head moved restlessly he licked his lips. “No ... don’t think so. But D’Amico’s a real snake –”

“A real dead snake, Mr. Wilmington.” Ezra’s gold tooth showed briefly. “Trust me,” he shushed Buck’s question before it was out.

Buck grabbed Ezra’s arm. “Get me up there. I gotta get up there!”

“I don’t think so, brother.” Nathan knelt beside Wilmington and began a quick assessment of his injuries. “Only place you’re goin’ is down to the ambulance.”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere without knowing about Chris and Vin.”

“Is he gonna be okay, Nathan?” JD’s face was screwed in a frown of worry as he watched the medic examine Buck’s wounded shoulder.

Buck’s hand moved dismissively. “Sure, kid,” he reassured JD, but his blue eyes remained focused on Ezra. “Get Chris,” he said weakly. “Hurry.”

“I am on my way. Nathan, as soon as you can, get up to the roof. Agent Dunne, sit on Mr. Wilmington if you have to.” He rose from his crouch just as one of the policemen called down the stairwell.

“Agent Standish! We need EMS up here, stat!”

Buck gasped, struggled against JD’s hold. The young agent’s eyes were wide, stricken, but he didn’t release Wilmington from his restraint. “Ezra –” JD entreated. The plea was there, the pain, the fear. Ezra wondered if those hazel eyes were a mirror of his own. He turned and ran up the steps.

The glare from the watery sunlight partially blinded him. He blinked, shielded his eyes. He saw two cops standing over the third, who was kneeling over two bodies, both frighteningly still. Ezra felt like he was strangling on his own breath. He jerked at his necktie as he crossed the roof, but found no relief from the tightness in his throat. He brushed past the two policemen screening his vision. “Are they ...” He had to pause, swallow.

The cop looked up at him. “Alive.”

*Thank God.* Ezra sank to his knees beside his fallen comrades. Chris was lying on his back, his head turned slightly. There was blood oozing from a cut on his forehead, more blood at the corner of his mouth. The flesh around his eye was grotesquely swollen beneath the abraded, bruised skin. There was a dark and growing stain of blood on his white shirt. Something about that seemed odd ...

Vin’s body was draped limply over Larabee’s chest. Ezra bent closer and saw that it was his blood leaking onto Chris’s shirt. He gently swept aside the veil of brown hair. Tanner’s pale skin was cool, clammy to the touch. He looked nearly bled out -- and he was a man who couldn’t afford to lose much. “Nathan!” Ezra yelled, fear clamping down hard on his heart.

Jackson was there quickly with two EMTs. He started work on Vin first; moving him gently off Chris’s body once there was a cervical collar on him. He cut off the dark, bloody shirt, cursed softly under his breath. One of the techs raised Vin and checked his back. “Went through,” he said. Ezra couldn’t tell from Nathan’s reaction if that was good news or bad.

They put a pressure bandage over the wound, front and back, took his blood pressure and pulse, and started an IV. Ezra knew enough medical terminology to be alarmed, but wouldn’t interrupt their work to ask questions. There would be time for that later.

Meanwhile, the other team was working on Larabee. A cervical collar immobilized his neck, his pupil reactions were checked, another IV started. One of the techs gently placed gauze pads to cushion Larabee’s injured face, then both men were lifted onto gurneys, wheeled carefully down the short flight of steps, and loaded into the freight elevator.

Ezra stood alone on the rooftop amid the detritus of gauze, tape, and plastic. The wind swirled it across the surface, sending it scuttling into corners where it was trapped along with the dust, ashes, and trash. Ezra took out his cell phone and called down to the command center. “We’re clear. Send up a forensics team.” He heard a carillon chime in the distance. Less than an hour had passed since Vin had first gone to the rooftop. It seemed like an eternity.

“Ezra, you coming?” JD stood in the stairwell, holding the steel door open.

He sighed, shifted his shoulders which ached like the weight of the world was resting on them. “Yes, Mr. Dunne. I am.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Travis and Josiah arrived in the lobby just as the EMS teams were coming through with Buck Wilmington’s gurney. Wilmington’s eyes were closed, his arm was strapped across his chest, an IV was dripping into the other arm, but he was clearly alive and looked likely to stay that way. JD was trotting alongside the EMTs, but when he saw Travis, he patted Buck’s leg and let the techs take care of loading him into an ambulance.

“Sir --” He approached Travis warily.

“Where are the others?” Travis asked more sharply than he had intended, and making JD take an involuntary step back before he answered.

“Chris and Vin ... the other teams are bringing them down. Sir, it’s bad.”

“God.”

JD swallowed hard, fighting his emotions. “Vin’s been shot, lost a lot of blood it looks like. And Chris ... I-I don’t know ... Nathan’ll tell you more than I can. I-I’m gonna ride with Buck if you don’t need me here.”

Travis felt a sick churning in his gut fueled by worry, an enormous rage towards the bureaucrats in Washington who had been pushing for the investigation, and guilt for his own desire to prove his team the best. Well, he’d proved that in spades. Perhaps to their deaths.

“Sir?”

He realized JD was still waiting for permission. There was no reason to keep him here. Travis nodded. “Go ahead. Agent Dunne, thank you for your exemplary work on this case.” A blush warmed the pallor in his cheeks. He nodded, the hank of dark hair falling over forehead making him look like he was fresh out of school, and compounding Travis’s guilt.

He watched as they loaded Wilmington in the ambulance, then turned on his heel and headed inside the building. They lobby was becoming crowded with police, FBI, Secret Service, ATF, crime scene techs. The news media would be admitted later. He could see them just beyond the doors; microphones on booms extended towards the Mayor’s press secretary, who seemed to be making an official statement.

Josiah was standing in the elevator bay watching the lighted display on the wall that indicated the position of every car. Only one was moving, coming down. “That should be Chris and Vin,” he said quietly.

And then the doors were opening and the first gurney was wheeled out. Travis caught a glimpse of hair the color of rusty straw. Chris. Strapped down, unconscious. Bloody. Gauze bandages covered one side of his face.

Then Vin. Swathed in blankets, hooked up to an IV held high by one of the EMTs, as white and frail as a ghost. They were moving fast, and Travis didn’t get much of a look at him; but he saw enough to haunt him.

Ezra Standish and Nathan Jackson were last off the elevator. Jackson’s white shirt was stained red, his forearms were smeared with bloody streaks. His dark face was taut with worry. Following him, Ezra Standish was about as far from immaculate as Travis had ever seen him. His tie hung loose, his cuffs were edged with blood, his elegant trousers were dirty and snagged. And the look he fixed on Travis made him feel like one of the lower orders of slime. With cause, Travis thought inwardly. With cause.

“Nathan –”

He didn’t have to ask. Nathan answered with unflinching honesty. “We won’t know much until they get them to the hospital. Vin’s been shot. Chris’s been beaten up pretty bad. Might have a facial fracture around his eye. Might be bleeding internally. His blood pressure is way too low.”

“God.” Orrin rubbed his forehead. “Ezra, what happened up there?”

Ezra looked at him, his expression inscrutable. “That I am afraid I am unable to say at this time. You’ll have to ask your witnesses – if they survive.” Slightly defiant, challenging, he walked away. It was the worst sort of insubordination, but Travis didn’t have the heart to fault him for it.

Josiah came to his side. “You want a ride to the hospital?”

Travis wanted nothing more. But he shook his head. “I can’t leave here. There are things that need to be put in order. That’s my job. I’ll meet you there later.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Josiah – I’d be there if I could.”

Josiah nodded. “Judge, you do your work and let the docs and the Lord do theirs.” He sighed. “I reckon things look mighty dark right now, but these men are tough. They’ve all been through worse than this.”

“But not through any fault of mine,” Travis replied bitterly. His grey gaze swept along the front of the building, seeing all that had happened as an accusation of failure to protect and defend the men he commanded. “Call me if there is any news.”

Josiah nodded, walked away quickly. Travis squared his shoulders and went out to deal with the media, his investigative teams, and his conscience.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Two hours later, Dr. Elizabeth Stone stripped off her bloody surgical gloves and gown with a weary sigh of satisfaction. It hadn’t been easy, but her team of trauma specialists had fought the fight and won the last round. For now. Nobody knew better than she how easily death’s dark shadow could return. Infection, hemorrhage, blood clots; she had seen patients go from mending to mortally ill in the matter of hours. But somehow she doubted it would happen to these men. Not even death was willing to go mano-a-mano with a pissed-off Chris Larabee.

She pushed open the swinging door to the waiting area, and the four men waiting there rose as one and moved in unison towards her. Before they could start asking questions, she raised her hands. “Whoa, there. Just stop and listen to me, all right?”

“B-but –” JD started stuttering, and she shook her head.

“*Listen* to me.” When he had subsided and the others backed down, she nodded. “Sit down.” They did. “First, Buck Wilmington. He’s fine. He’s been transfused, patched up, and is already spreading his own brand of sweetness and light through the nursing staff. You can see him shortly, but only for a few minutes. Even Buck needs to rest and recover.”

She sensed a slight abatement in the level of anxiety at her news and she hoped she could offer some reassurance about the other two members of this extraordinary team. When she'd first met them, she had thought them the usual swaggering, macho, gun-toting lot of law enforcement officers she ran into too frequently, and Chris Larabee the most arrogant S.O.B. she'd ever met. It had taken only one true crisis to completely revise her opinion of them -- and that included Larabee. She had never seen more devotion, respect and love than these men had for each other. Even if every single one of them but JD Dunne could be a royal pain in the ass.

“Chris and Vin?” Nathan asked into her momentary pause.

Dr. Stone crossed her arms. “I wish their conditions were as uncomplicated as Buck’s. Chris sustained a fracture of the orbital area. When the swelling reduces, Dr. Rheinhardt will assess if there is any ocular impairment.” When she saw their crestfallen expressions, she amended. “If there is – and that is only a possibility – it should resolve itself in a couple of weeks. A plastic surgeon will be consulted as well. The CT scan did not show any skull fractures, though he has a concussion. We sutured a gunshot wound to his scalp. His most serious problem wasn’t an injury at all, however. His ulcer perforated. We had to do a laparoscopic procedure to close it and clean his abdominal cavity. The surgery was successful, now we just have to wait for him to wake up. And we will be treating him with antibiotics and hopefully taking care of that difficulty.” She paused for a breath.

“How is Vin?” Ezra asked quietly. There was no hint of his usual acerbic drawl. His green eyes were intent, shadowed.

“Why that man isn’t dead is beyond me,” she said with a wondering shake of her head. “Oh, his gunshot wound wasn’t particularly serious. No major damage to any internal organs or large blood vessels, but the bullet did tear a good chunk out of his side. His blood counts were low already and that didn’t help. He’s exhausted, run down. He has two cracked metatarsal bones in his left hand and a low grade infection from a small abscess in his liver caused by his earlier injury. Getting shot might have *saved* his life.” She frowned, exasperated and relieved because it could have been so much worse.

“Can we see him and Chris?” JD asked.

“You can see them, but they won’t see you,” she smiled slightly. “I’ll have somebody come down to get you as soon as they are settled in rooms. Now, get out of my ER and let some other patients monopolize me for a change.”

“Thank you.” Josiah said. “We appreciate what you’ve done for us.” His big hand gently engulfed Dr. Stone’s.

“Prove it by staying out of my ER,” she smiled up at him. “Though I don’t expect that you gentlemen will.” She retreated behind the swinging door.

Josiah laid his arm over JD’s shoulder. “I don’t know about you, son. But I just realized I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Anybody else up for a run to the cafeteria?”

Ezra shook his head. “I will pass on that gustatory experience, thank you. But don’t let my reluctance prevent you from the culinary indulgence of high fat, low flavor cuisine.”

JD gave a snort of laughter. “Shoot, Ezra. Why don’t ya just say you’re not hungry?”

“I thought I did.”

Nathan listened to the banter, astonished by the resilient spirits of his comrades and more grateful than he could say that they weren’t mourning that evening for the three men who had put their lives on the line that afternoon. “You sure you won’t come with us, Ezra?” he asked before he followed Josiah and JD down the hall.

“No thank you, my friend. I need some time to sort out the events of this afternoon. I expect Orrin Travis will be here shortly, and I imagine he will be looking for answers.”

“Bring ya some coffee?”

Ezra felt a faint astonishment that they wouldn’t let this go. That their friendship could endure all that it had and they could still offer more was a mystery that he hadn’t quite figured out. Maude had never taught him that particular lesson. “I would be grateful. Milk, no sugar.”

“I know.” Nathan grinned and left Ezra even more astonished.

He sank back down in the vinyl chair and sat with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His thoughts were too fragmented to make much sense. He pulled a deck of cards from his inside pocket and expertly shuffled them, setting out a game of solitaire on the low table in front of his chair. It wouldn’t help him formulate answers to Travis’s questions, but it would help pass the time.

He was still alone when a nurse’s aide came through the swinging doors. She looked at the paper in her hand. “Anybody here to see Buck Wilmington, Chris Larabee, or Vin Tanner?”

He swept the cards up from the table. “I am. The others are in the cafeteria.”

“Oh. Okay. Mr. Wilmington is in Room 509. Mr. Tanner and Mr. Larabee are in surgical ICU. Dr. Stone gave her permission to visit there. Why don’t you go on up to SICU first, and I’ll get the others. Do you need directions?”

Ezra nearly laughed. “No. No, I assure you I can find my way without guidance.” She gave him an odd look, but he was already on his way towards the elevators. The SICU floor was nearly silent, no visitors but him so far. The lights were low, the quiet disturbed only by the electronic sounds of monitoring equipment and the quiet voices of the nurses and doctors on duty. Ezra stopped at the nurses’ station. “I am here to see Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee.”

The nurse looked up from her work and smiled. “Rooms 7 and 8. Dr. Stone told us they had to be near each other.”

“They would appreciate that.” He left the desk and found Vin’s “room”. Hardly a room, a glass-walled cubicle. He stood looking down at the man in the bed. “Mr. Tanner,” he sighed. “You do lead us all a merry dance, my friend. I wish this once you had been more cautious.” Too pale, too thin in the narrow bed. Ezra brushed a knuckle across Vin’s forehead, clearing the strands of hair from the damp skin. “We owe you an incalculable debt that you will never acknowledge. So, my friend, the least I can do is thank you even though you cannot hear it. *Thank you.*” Then ashamed of his sentimental gesture, he pulled his hand back as if he had touched a hot iron.

His eyes burned. He rubbed them, surprised to feel tears on his cheeks. Maude would be appalled. He looked up. The curtains over the glass walls of the next cubicle had been left open. Inside, the light over Chris Larabee’s bed shed a dim glow on his blond hair. His face was bandaged, but turned towards the glass partition as if he were aware of Vin’s presence.

Ezra shook his head, smiling. Elizabeth Stone deserved every cent of her undoubtedly outrageous salary. He couldn’t think of another doctor who would have known that neither man would rest easy unless they could open their eyes and see each other the instant consciousness returned.

He saw the others standing at the nurses’ station and knew he had to leave before any one else could enter. He straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and hoped that there were no telltale tracks of tears on his face. That, he would never live down.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

He was in darkness, but the darkness was warm, comforting. He knew that sensation, had felt it before, and also knew that waking from it would be difficult and painful. He clung to it for as long as he could, but soon sounds intruded – the steady beep of electronic monitors, voices drifting in and out of hearing range, the slide of a door. Then a warm hand on his wrist and a gentle voice calling his name.

“Mr. Tanner? Vin? Time to wake up. Come on ... I know you’re in there.” The warm hand moved from his wrist to his cheek. He tried to lift his arm to brush the touch aside, and couldn’t. *Aw, hell.*

His eyes slitted open. He knew where he was. Hospital. Wasn’t quite sure why, though. His side hurt. That’s right. He’d been shot by ... Gianni D’Amico? His head moved restlessly on the pillow. Couldn’t be right ... Images flashed through his mind.

He was running up a flight of stairs, blood was seeping through his fingers. Troy D’Amico in his grip, a wild look in his eyes, and then he was falling ... And Chris –

“Chris!” Vin gasped and his eyes flew open wide. “Larabee! I gotta see him! He’s hurt —” He fought to sit up, fear giving him strength to fight hard against the restraint.

The hand on his shoulder held him back ruthlessly. “He’s all right. Vin, look at me. He’s all right. Take it easy.”

That compelling voice forced its way into his awakening mind, and he fell back against the pillow. He knew that voice, knew it would bring him back safely. He opened him eyes and looked up into Dr. Elizabeth Stone’s tired face. “Doc?”

Her brows were knit in a frown, but her mouth smiled. “Yes?”

“Is Chris okay?”

“Turn your head to the right.”

He did. Larabee was in the next room. His face was heavily bandaged and one green eye was completely obscured, the other was fixed on Vin. Chris’s smile was weak and his fingers barely twitched when he tried to signal to him, but he was alive.

“See?” Elizabeth Stone nodded to Chris.

“What time is it?”

“Just after midnight. You, Buck, and Chris were brought in around two this afternoon.”

Vin’s eyes closed again. “Jesus. Bucklin, too?”

“He’s fine. In fact, he’ll probably be released in the morning. You and Chris, on the other hand, will be our guests for a while.”

“Shit,” Vin groaned and then looked instantly contrite. “Sorry, Doc. It ain’t a reflection on you.”

“Oh, I know. You just *love* all the attention you get in here, right?”

Vin’s mouth twitched in lopsided smile that didn’t quite erase the concern in his eyes. “Doc, is he ... I mean his eye’s all bandaged up. And his face was bloody. Is he gonna be bl —” He couldn’t even say the word. “He’s gonna be able to see?”

“Well, all I can really tell you is that his cheekbone was fractured and pretty swollen. Dr. Reinhardt is going to take a look at him tomorrow. But so far everything seems normal for the kind of abuse he’s taken.”

“But that ain’t the reason he’s in ICU.”

Dr. Stone sighed. Tanner had been here so often he might as well have the letters M.D. after his name. “Not entirely.”

“S’that ulcer a’ his, right?”

“Aren’t you the least interested in your own condition?” she asked, exasperated.

“Nope. But I reckon yer gonna tell me anyhow.”

She pulled up a chair to the bedside. “You have to take better care of yourself, Vin. Why didn’t you tell anybody that you were having pain and fever?”

“I figured I’s jist healing slow. And I didn’t know I had a fever. Didn’t feel like it.”

“Your Superman act didn’t help. You could have killed yourself.”

“And D’Amico could’a killed a lot more folks. He was gonna do it, too. I couldn’t let him. Nearly killed Ezra twice, and Chris. Maybe that ain’t a price I’s willin’ to negotiate,” he said stubbornly and closed his eyes. “I’m tired. Jist wanta sleep.”

“All right, Vin. But you, me, and Larabee are going to have a talk once you’re both out of ICU. And you’re not going to dodge it, you hear?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I hear.” He turned his head towards the glass wall and watched as a nurse fussed with Larabee’s IV’s and bandages. When she moved aside, Chris was sleeping. Vin didn’t take his eyes off his friend until they closed, and he, too, drifted to sleep.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra arrived at Mercy General the next morning, went up to the ICU, walked confidently over to the cubicle where Vin had been a few hours earlier and looked in on an empty and stripped bed. A quick glance to the right revealed that Chris was also gone, which was good news, he hoped.

A light tap on his shoulder made him turn quickly. One of the floor nurses stood there, smiling. “If you’re looking for Mr. Tanner and Mr. Larabee, they’ve been moved to the surgical floor. Room 1098.”

“Together?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Like we could separate those two without one or the other raising a ruckus.”

“It seems their reputation precedes them,” Ezra sighed. “Thank you.” He gave her a smile that had all the respect and deference of a courtly bow, and she sighed after he had gone. The floor was a lot drearier without the presence of Tanner and Larabee. Calmer, but certainly less interesting on a number of levels.

Room 1098 was a large, sunny corner room, the sort that was usually reserved for VIP patients. Ezra wondered if Rain and Nathan had the pull to get it for Chris and Vin, or if it was somebody higher up pulling the strings ... like Orrin Travis. It seemed the least he could do, seeing as it was partially his fault that they were in the hospital to begin with. Ezra found it hard to sympathize even though he knew Travis would have done anything to avoid causing harm to his agents. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, though, and no semi-private room with a view would entirely assuage the man’s guilt.

The door was partially ajar. Ezra paused with his hand raised to knock, but there was no sound from inside, so he pushed the door open and peered around the corner. Chris’s blonde head was turned away from the door, so Ezra couldn’t tell if he was awake or not. He entered and looked around the slight curve of the room. Vin was sitting up, gazing out the window.

“It is refreshing to see you upright for a change Mr. Tanner.” Ezra sauntered into the room. “I was beginning to wonder if being prone was a permanent condition.”

“M’head hurts enough without twenty-five thousand dollar words, Ez. But thanks fer the thought. I ‘preciate it.”

Ezra studied the still form in the other bed. “How is Mr. Larabee?”

“Been sleepin’ pretty much ever since they brought him down. Reckon he needs it.” Vin’s gaze lingered a moment. “How’re you doin’, Ezra?”

“I am not a patient in this facility, therefore, I am grateful.”

Vin raised his bed a bit more. “You mind handin’ me some water?” he asked. Ezra poured some water from a plastic carafe into a glass and handed it to him. It was awkward with the IV tubing in his arm, and he was still appallingly weak. The thin plastic glass seemed to weigh a lot more than it should. He took a couple sips and set the glass down before he lay back against his pillows, exhausted.

Ezra picked up the glass and slipped his arm beneath Vin’s head. “Let me do the work, all right?”

Vin drank several swallows before he refused more. “Thanks, Ez. You been t’see Buck?”

“Our friend seems to be in clover, as ever with the fairer sex. I left him in the company of a charmin’ lady named Kerry.”

Vin laughed. “Evidence tech Kerry?”

Ezra groaned. “Mr. Wilmington obviously has not considered the drawbacks in such a relationship.”

“Drawbacks?”

“Would you date a woman who makes a career of gathering evidence of covert activity? And who is licensed to carry?” He shuddered. “What *is* he thinking?”

“Buck thinks when there’s a woman around?” Vin chuckled softly. “C’ain’t say I’ve noticed.” That small movement made his side twinge and his mouth draw in a thin line. Ezra shook his head.

“You my friend, need to get some rest.”

“Ya don’t have t’leave, Ez. I’m all right.”

“You will be better for sleep.” Ezra rose and offered his hand. “Considerin’ that Orrin Travis will undoubtedly be knocking on your door with too many questions that need answers.”

“Thanks fer the reminder, Ez.” Vin gave him a small, dour smile and closed his eyes. Ezra was not a man to open his mind or heart to others; but despite his self-sufficiency and independence he considered Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee to be among the few people in this world he trusted and respected unconditionally. As he looked at his two wounded, weary friends, he wondered how on earth Travis could justify the decisions that had led them to this place, to this fragile state of being. To Ezra’s mind, he couldn’t.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

It was late in the afternoon before Orrin Travis could escape from the office and the telephone that had seemingly been glued to his ear for the last twenty-four hours. So many questions, false assumptions, accusations ... and no one wanted to take responsibility in the end for the monumental fuck-up this operation had become.

Then at 4pm, when he was just about to take out his own gun and shoot himself just to get rid of the headache that had been plaguing him since dawn, a package FedEx-ed overnight from Treasury headquarters in Washington had landed on his desk. In it were letters of commendation for the members of Team Seven. He doubted any of the seven men would be honored to receive them, not when they had been used with brutal disregard for their safety in the interest of an internal investigation. But the citations gave him a good excuse to stop dodging his own conscience and go to the hospital.

He called Evie, told her he would be late, and the reason why. He wondered if he was imagining the faint disapproval in her voice – not at his tardiness, but at the poor judgments he had made over the last few weeks.

He didn’t know what he expected to find at the hospital; certainly not Vin Tanner sitting in a chair next to Chris’s bed, his hand cupped lightly over Larabee’s, speaking in that soft rasp of a voice, urging him to wake up.

Larabee was nearly as pale as the bandages on his face. A bag of blood was dripping steadily through an IV line, piggybacked with some sort of clear hydration. Tanner didn’t look much better despite being upright. But evidently one of his teammates had taken pity on him and had dropped off some of his own clothes. Flannel pajama bottoms and a worn blue terry robe. God, he looked young. Too young to have the sort of record that Travis knew he had; Army Ranger, sniper, bounty hunter, U.S. Marshall, ATF. And he had survived them all ... barely.

“How is he?” Travis cleared his throat and entered the room.

Vin looked at him a moment before speaking. “Been drifting in and out all day. They got him on painkillers, and that stuff they give him before he gets blood puts him out like a light.”

“And you?”

“Reckon I’m on the mend.” He pushed himself to his feet, reached for his IV pole, swayed a bit. Travis took his arm and helped him back to the bed. Tanner didn’t refuse the help, but as soon as he could, he pulled away from the support. Getting his legs up on the bed seemed beyond his strength, so without speaking or waiting for Tanner to ask, Travis carefully lifted his legs and covered him with the light blanket.

Vin’s eyes widened at the kindness, and he nodded a brief thank-you. Travis reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out one of the letters. “This came from Washington this afternoon. I thought you should have it.”

Vin looked down at his casted hand. “You mind openin’ it?”

He didn’t mind. He broke the seal and took out the letter, snapping it open. “It’s a citation for conspicuous bravery above and beyond the call of duty.”

Vin gave an exhausted sigh and his head wilted against the pillows. “I’s jist doin’ my job.”

“There is one for every member of the team.”

“Reckon ya gotta salve every wound.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t mean t’be rude, sir, but I’m tired now.”

“Yes, son. I imagine you are.” A gentle hand rested for a moment on his shoulder. The citation fluttered to the blankets, but Tanner didn’t move. Travis went to Chris’s bedside and set the citation on the nightstand. Larabee’s blond hair was matted and flecked with dry blood, his lip was swollen and cracked, and a dark bruise spread across his cheekbone. Travis didn’t want to know what damage lay beneath the thick padding of bandages. A dry prickling behind his eyelids and in his throat took him by surprise. He looked away, blinked, and when he looked up, Ezra Standish was standing in the doorway.

“Ezra.”

“Director Travis.”

The exchange had all the warmth of greetings between warring treaty negotiators. There were words to say on both sides, but neither man was sure this was the time or place to say them.

Travis cleared his throat. “I was just leaving.” He reached into his pocket. “But I have something for you.” He held out the envelope. Ezra looked at it distrustfully, as if it contained a pink slip, or worse. “It’s not bad news, Ezra.”

He took the envelope from Travis, opened it and read the words. “Very complimentary. I suppose there is one for all of us?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Of course.”

“Standish, this is supposed to be an honor!”

“It is salt rubbed into a wound, and you know it!” Ezra hissed furiously. “And it is an insult to these two men to see it as anything else!” With an expert flip of his wrist he sailed the envelope into the waste basket, turned crisply, and walked away.

Travis stood like stone. He had expected this to be difficult. He hadn’t expected it to hurt quite as much as it did. Sighing, he bent and took the envelope from the wastebasket. He would deliver it at a later date when all of this had come to some sort of resolution. Meanwhile, he had some choice words for the brass in Washington, and this time, he wasn’t going to choke them back.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

He felt like he had been asleep for a hundred years; old, stiff, hurting, weak. He opened his undamaged eye with an effort and blinked at the dim light overhead. He wondered how long he’d been out of it this time. The last thing he remembered was a nurse giving him two Benadryl capsules before she hung a bag of blood. He turned his head towards the IV pump. The blood was gone, just hydration and the small bag of antibiotics. He moved his free hand to his abdomen and felt the bandage over the small incision. Ten years ago, he would have had a scar slashing across his belly; now, just this pad of gauze the size of one he’d put on a child’s skinned knee. He fumbled for the remote with the buttons to raise his bed. It responded with a low hum and creak of springs. When he was more or less upright, he raised the light level and looked around.

Vin’s bed was empty but rumpled. Chris hoped that meant he was up and moving around. The clock on the wall opposite read 10pm, not late by any standards, particularly Vin’s. There was a carafe of water on the bedside table and Chris’s mouth felt like it had been swabbed out with cotton. He pushed the call button and a few minutes later, a nurse came through the door.

“Mr. Larabee, I’m Winnie. I’ll be your nurse for the night. Lynn will be back in the morning. How can I help you?”

“I’m thirsty but I didn’t know if I’m NPO.”

Her brows flew up. “How much time *have* you spent in the hospital?”

He grinned. “More than I like.”

“You can have clear liquids by mouth. We’ll move on to soft foods in a day or so.” She poured some water into a glass and handed it to him. “Do you feel like getting out of bed?”

“Yeah, I do. Umm, where’s my roomie?”

“Mr. Tanner is in the lounge watching TV. He didn’t want to wake you up.” She stood by the bed as he swung his legs over the side and stood up. He was grateful for her shoulder while he grew steady on his feet. He got a grip on the IV pole and managed to make his way to the small bathroom. “Can you manage?” she asked tactfully.

“I’ll let you know.” When Hell froze over unless he dropped on the floor in a faint. He didn’t. And she was waiting with a bathrobe over her arm when he came out. His own bathrobe. “Where’d that come from?” he asked.

“I believe your friend Ezra Standish brought it for you when he dropped off some things for Mr. Tanner.” She helped him slide the sleeve over the arm that was unencumbered by the IVs, draped it around the shoulder that was, and then tied the belt loosely around his waist to secure it. “There. Ready?”

“How far is it to the lounge?”

“Down at the end of the hall. Think you can make it?”

“You’ll be the first to know if I can’t.”

Small steps, and far too many it seemed, but it was good to be moving on his own steam, even if it felt like his stomach was going to fall out of his abdomen, and his depth perception was thrown off by the bandages. Winnie held the door for him and he looked inside. The room was dimly lit by a lamp and the glow from the television. Vin was sitting cross-legged on the couch. One arm was in a cast, but other than that, he seemed in pretty good shape. A lot of tension that Chris had been carrying around inside of him uncoiled and he walked slowly over to the couch and eased himself down.

Vin turned to him with a smile. “Hey, pard.”

“Hey, yourself.” Chris leaned his head back against the cushions. “Damn, that’s a long walk.”

“Yer jist gettin’ old, Larabee.” Vin held out his good hand. “But I ain’t gonna say I’m not glad t’see ya.”

Chris gripped it with all the strength he had. Not even enough to make Vin wince. Now that was sad. He studied his friend’s drawn face. Vin looked exhausted. Pale. Not at ease despite the apparent end of the case. Or maybe not so apparent, Chris wondered. “How are you, Vin? Seriously.”

“Seriously?” He shook his head. “Been better. Been worse, too. Doc Stone is gonna read us both the riot act t’morrow.”

“Great ...” Chris groaned. “Just what I need.” He scrubbed a hand over his forehead. “You mind tellin’ me just what went on up there on that rooftop? I’d like to know.”

Just looking at the bruises on his face and the way he was protecting his abdomen made Vin hesitate, uncertain that Chris should be taxed with the details just yet. But Larabee just lifted that one blond brow and Vin surrendered. “Well, after Buck was shot –”

“What?”

“Sorry, Chris. I fergot ya didn’t know that part.” He took a breath. “Well, Buck got shot, but he’s all right. They discharged him this afternoon. JD took him home to the loft an’ I reckon he’s doin’ fine. Guess he’s got Kerry there, waitin’ on him hand and foot.”

Chris was distracted from the hard facts by that bit of information. “Evidence tech Kerry?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yeah.” Vin chuckled. “Think she c’n handle him?”

“Question is, can he handle her?”

“Think it matters?”

“Nope.” Chris smiled. “Not one bit. Now get back to the official story, Tanner. How did Buck get shot?”

“That bastard Fazio wasn’t as dead as I thought he was. He pulled a gun on Buck, got off one shot b’fore ...” Vin’s voice faded.

“Before what?”

“B’fore I gutted him.”

Chris’s mouth hardened. “Good. Go on.”

Vin sighed before he continued. “Well, anyways, after I saw Buck was okay, I went up ta the roof, saw D’Amico beatin’ on ya. I shot him Chris. I wasn’t aimin’ t’kill him, not at first, not even after what he done t’ya. I wanted ... Jesus, I jist wanted him t’suffer half a’ what he made me, you, and Ez suffer. I wanted five minutes alone in interrogation with him.” A peculiar savagery glittered in Vin’s eyes and made his rough voice deadly quiet. “But seems like the Lord had other plans.” His jaw knotted and he retreated into silence.

“But he’s dead, right?” Chris frowned, troubled by too many loose ends in Vin’s narrative, but not wanting to press him when he was on the edge of violence as it was.

“Yeah. He fell. I swear t’God, Chris. I didn’t want him t’fall. I tried ...” he choked back a sob of helplessness and rage. “Tried t’hold him, but I had a gun in my good hand, and all I could do with this one was t’try to grab his jacket ... I couldn’t hold him. I tried, but I jist couldn’t hold him. I’m sorry.” A broken sob tore from his throat. He leaned forward, his head buried in his hands, his shoulders bowed.

Something wasn’t right here, but Chris was dammed if he understood. Why was Vin wasting tears and anguish on scum like Troy D’Amico? He’d figure that out later, but right now, Tanner was bleeding in his heart and Chris had to stop that hemorrhage first.

Chris laid a cautious arm around Vin’s slender, shaking body, and realized how thin Tanner was, how steep the price was he had paid over the last weeks. His head ached, his abdomen hurt, and that too was part of the cost of this case. Chris was suddenly weary beyond his wounds to his very soul. He moved his hand in slow, soothing circles on Vin’s back, speaking quietly, gently.

“It’s okay, partner. You did what you had to do. And to tell the truth, I ain’t sorry D’Amico’s dead. I hope he had a lot of time to think before he hit the ground and I hope every second seemed like a thousand years.”

“But what’d he *die* for, Chris? Seems like the bastard got the easy way out, and all the folks he hurt an’ harmed are still sufferin’. Sure we got rid a’ two snakes but the rest of the vipers r’ still in the nest and we ain’t gonna flush ‘em out. Not now. They’ll jist burrow deeper underground, lie low, and come crawlin’ out t’do more evil when it’s safe. What did we do this for?” Anguish made him curl even tighter around his pain until Chris’s hand gripped his shoulder and compelled him to straighten up. His eyes were brimming with tears he couldn’t hold back and they slipped down his face, hot at first, then cold as ice.

Chris looked into those deep wells of pain and guilt and felt sick. Damn Travis for this! Damn the whole bureaucracy for thinking a few words of praise could even begin to atone for what had been done to his team in the name of “The Job.”

“This isn’t your fault, Vin. It’s not my fault, or Ezra’s or Buck’s. We did our job, even with all the shit that was piled on us from the beginning. And we aren’t the ones the stench is gonna cling to. I swear it.”

Vin dragged his sleeve over his eyes and shook his head. He pulled two envelopes out of the pocket of his robe. “Travis dropped these off earlier. One fer me, one fer you. One fer all God’s chil’n.”

Chris unfolded the letter and read it in silence, all the while aware of Vin breathing beside him, waiting. He turned to Vin, his eyes hooded and dangerous. “‘Not all the perfumes of Araby ...’”

“Hmm?”

“Macbeth. Ask Ezra, he’ll explain. Think of spraying Lysol into a charnel house.”

“Chris, I ain’t up to riddles.”

“I know, partner,” he sighed. “I’ll take care of this. Meanwhile, let’s get healed up and outta here.” He grabbed his IV pole and pulled himself upright. He held out his hand to Vin, helped him stand. They stood there, rueful smiles on their faces at their own weakness. Vin slipped his good arm around Chris’s waist, and Chris leaned on Vin’s shoulder as they made a slow progress back to their room.

As they passed the nurses’ station, Winnie called out, “You boys going to make it all right?”

Vin looked over his shoulder. “I reckon’ ever’ cripple’s got his own way a’ walkin’.”

She shook her head, let them proceed. She’d check on them in a few minutes to make sure neither of them was passed out on the floor. Men!

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris didn’t take the sleeping pill they brought him that night. He stared at it, in the little plastic cup, and thought of the oblivion it would bring him. He turned the overhead light down and listened to Vin’s quiet breathing. He’d worn himself out emotionally and physically earlier and no pill had been necessary for him to slip into a deep sleep almost the instant his head had hit the pillow.

Chris wanted to fall into darkness, but he needed to think clearly; without drugs, without extraneous distractions. The pain forced him to focus, the same way music on the truck radio kept him sharp when driving long distances. He leaned his head back and thought. There were too many unanswered questions, too many doubts. Pointless to try to fit the pieces of the puzzle together when half of them were missing. He had promised Vin he would make things right. Or at least make them level. Hell of a thing to promise a friend when he had no idea how to fulfill it.

Reluctantly, he reached for the phone and punched in a number, then waited. He didn’t expect to get a live person on the other end, and he didn’t. “Orrin, Chris. We need to talk. You know where you can find me.”

He hung up. Eyed the sleeping pill and took it. If he was going to have it out with Travis, he’d need his rest.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The morning started not with Orrin, but with Dr. Ann Reinhardt, the ophthalmologist. She took the bandage off Chris’s eye, examined him, and seemed pleased with the result. “Good. Your pupil is reactive, there’s no bleeding in the retina, and your vision is clearing, right?”

“Still a bit blurry, but better than it was.”

She nodded, and to his relief left his eye unbandaged. “Good. I’ll order a head CT for later this afternoon to check on that orbital fracture now that the swelling is down.” She made some notations on his chart. “I’m ordering a consult with a plastic surgeon. Whether or not you’ll need any work on that cheekbone will depend on how he reads the scan.” She tilted his head to the light and smiled. “You have a spectacular shiner, Mr. Larabee.”

Vin chuckled from the other bed. “Looks real nice with that green glare, don’t it, Doc?”

“In a few days it will coordinate beautifully,” she said. “No wild parties, no chasing nurses, no fistfights. Take it easy, you hear?”

“Hell, Doc, he ain’t Buck Wilmington!” Vin laughed. “Though he ain’t ‘xactly the most patient feller.”

“If he misbehaves, Elizabeth Stone *will* hear of it,” Dr. Reinhardt warned, her gray eyes twinkling.

Chris held up his hands in mock surrender. “I promise.”

A shadow darkened the doorway. “Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep,” Dr. Stone warned, and Chris sank down deeper into the bed.

“Mornin’, Doc.” Vin said brightly.

“Feeling better?” She picked up his wrist and felt his pulse. “How did you sleep?”

“Real good.”

“Any pain?”

“I’m f –” He broke off when he saw the warning look on the doctor’s face. “No, Doc. No pain but the one in m’wrist from yer fingers pinchin’ me.”

She gave him a look that clearly indicated she didn’t appreciate his wisecracks. “Good. Temperature, almost normal. BP is fine. Excellent. You’re going down to Radiology now for an MRI to make sure that abscess is healing.”

Vin’s mood suddenly faded and he paled. He hated MRIs. The tiny, dark chamber, the noise and the isolation wreaked havoc with his claustrophobic tendencies. Elizabeth Stone felt the pulse suddenly leap beneath her fingers and ached for the young man in her care. “I can prescribe a tranquilizer, if you like.”

Vin swallowed. “Don’t know which I hate worse.”

She felt a sharp sympathy for him, understanding his fear and reluctance, but also couldn’t back down from what was best for him. “Take the pill, Vin. You’ll doze through most of it,” she advised, and was relieved when he nodded reluctantly. She crossed the room to Chris’s bedside. “Now, Mr. Larabee ...”

He sighed wearily. “Go on, Doc. Kick me while I’m down.”

“Not right now. Maybe when you feel better and you’ve got farther to fall.”

“Thanks,” he said ruefully.

She did a quick exam. Raised the bandage on his incision and seemed pleased with his healing process. “Your morning labs were good, Chris. No more bleeding. I’ll save the lecture for later. For now, get your rest and try to leave the job behind you for a few days.”

“Right.” He wilted against the pillows. She didn’t have to know about Travis. And he had no intention of telling her.

Her hand rested lightly on his wrist. “Chris, I’m serious. You were very lucky. You could have bled to death, you could have developed peritonitis. The antibiotics you’re getting are to fight any possible contamination of the peritoneal cavity, but will also kill the bacteria that cause ulcers. You will be as *cured* as we can make you, but you are going to have to take steps to prevent it from happening again.”

He sighed. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not as bad as you think. Life will go on. And unfortunately, so will that job of yours.”

“Would you give up medicine if it gave you an ulcer?” he asked, perceptive enough to see the similarities in their temperaments and lifestyles.

“I don’t have an ulcer,” she said evenly. Apparently the subject was closed. “Vin, the orderly will be here in a few minutes. I’ll have the nurse bring you the tranquilizer and I’ll see you later. Chris, you’re scheduled for that scan around 2 this afternoon.”

“It’s a date, Doc.”

She gave a ladylike, derisive snort. “In your dreams, Larabee.” Then she was gone in a rustle of white lab coat and the staccato click of her heels.

Chris closed his eyes. His head hurt. He heard Vin give a slight hiss of laughter. “Oh man, Larabee. Has she got yer number!”

Chris gave him a crooked smile. “Jealous?”

“Hell, no. She gives me drugs, all you git is lectures.”

“Asshole.”

“Anybody ever tell ya yer a crotchety bastard?”

“Yeah.” Chris fell silent. “Vin, take the tranquilizer, okay?”

“Ain’t got much choice, bein’ stuck between a rock an’ a hard place.” The lightness in his voice was forced, the strain evident. “Reckon I’ll be all right.” The nurse came in with his medication and Chris watched as she injected it in an IV line. It took less than a minute to quiet Vin down. His eyes closed and his hands relaxed at his side. An orderly arrived with a gurney, transferred his limp body from the bed, and wheeled him out of the room. Chris hoped that drug-induced haze would last through the MRI.

Restless, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, feeling stronger than he had the night before. He wished he could lose the IV, but as long as he was on IV antibiotics, it looked like he and the pole were dancing partners. He managed to put his robe on and headed down the hall.

It dead-ended at the elevator bay and a wall of nearly floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city. It was one of those days when Denver sparkled, the smog banished by a front that had swept through and cleared out the haze and heat. Chris wished life could be as simple; as if D’Amico’s death could wipe the present clean of his foul misdeeds. Instead, one woke with the same clouds hanging overhead, the same darkness, the same shadows. And more questions than Chris cared to answer.

“Chris?”

Travis. Chris turned slowly from the window. “Orrin. Didn’t think you’d come this early.”

“I had to. The rest of the day is booked. I’m flying to Washington later tonight.”

“I see.” More lies? More excuses? Chris swayed slightly.

Travis raised a hand as if to take hold of Chris’s arm, then let it drop to his side. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

“My office is right down the hall,” Chris said ironically. His stamina was still frail enough that he was grateful to reach the room. He would have sat in the chair and let Travis use the one on Vin’s side of the room, but figured if he was going to play the guilt card, he might as well play it to the hilt. He took the bed and waited for Travis to settle uneasily in the chair.

Travis’s eyes flicked towards Vin’s bed. “Where is he?”

“MRI. He won’t be back for a while. They had to sedate him.” He let the accusatory implication hang in the air.

“How ... how are you, Chris?”

“It could have been worse. My vision’s clearing up enough for me to read between the lines.”

Travis cleared his throat. He didn’t know what to say. Chris still looked like Hell; gaunt and attenuated, pale beneath the bruises and healing abrasions. Lines of stress bracketed his mouth and scored his drawn cheeks. He was thinner than Travis had ever seen him; a sharp reminder of the ulcer that had nearly been his death. Travis added that tally to his account.

“I take it Vin gave you the citation?”

“Is that what this is all about?” Chris pulled the envelope from his pocket. “A pat on the head for a job well done? ‘Thanks, fellas for risking your lives. Now go away and forget this happened?’”

“It is an official recognition!”

“It’s bullshit!” Chris threw the letter down in disgust. “How stupid do you think I am, Orrin? How stupid do you think Vin and the others are?”

“Chris, let me explain –”

“Save it. I’m tired, Orrin. I’m tired of explanations, of excuses, of tap-dancing around the real issues. I’m tired of being shot at, beat on, betrayed. I’m tired of seeing my team bleed for scum like Williams and for faceless bureaucrats a thousand miles away. We *aren’t* talking about figures on paper, about columns on a ledger. We’re talking *lives* here! And maybe I’m thinkin’ it’s time I had one.”

“Chris ...” Travis hoped it was Larabee’s exhaustion and over-wrought nerves talking, and not his heart. “You’re too good of an agent to talk like that.”

“Well, that just it, Orrin. I am a good agent. And so are the others. Too good to be used like we’ve been used from the day this whole thing was set in motion. Maybe you didn’t know the whole story, but you knew enough to play along with it. Only you forgot one thing. You forgot to tell *me.*”

“I couldn’t –”

“Don’t give me that excuse. When have I ever betrayed you?”

“Never,” Travis admitted. “Not once in all the years I’ve known you.”

“I used to be able to say the same,” Chris said softly.

Travis leaned forward and set his hands over Chris’s. “I won’t ask more of you, Chris. Just this, while I’m away, think about what you’ve done with your life, what you’ve built over the years. Don’t walk away from it due to my misjudgments and failures. If, after I get back, you feel the same way, I’ll accept your resignation without prejudice.”

Chris looked into Travis’s sorrowful, honest eyes. “I can’t ask for more than that,” he agreed.

“I am sorry. For everything.” He rose stiffly. “Get your rest.”

“I will.” Despite everything, Chris gave Travis a slight smile and a nod. Then past weariness, he closed his eyes. Travis watched him for a moment before he stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Right about now, he was angry enough to reclaim those citations and cram them right up the asses of his superiors in Washington. He intended to come back to Denver with a lot more than empty words in his hands.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Buck came later that afternoon, looking a bit pale beneath his tan, but aside from his arm in a sling, seemed little worse for the wear. Chris was reading a newspaper, Vin was a small, curled shape in the other bed.

“Hey, Cowboy, how’re ya doin’? Buck slouched in and dropped in the chair, his long legs stretched out. “Ya look like ten miles a’ bad road.”

“Thanks, Buck. And it’s nice to see you too.”

“Didn’t say it wasn’t nice ta see you. Just that I’ve seen ya lookin’ better.” Buck cocked his head. “Seen ya look worse, though.”

“I’m fine.”

The stock answer made Buck grin. “Ya know, I thought I heard that nurse a’ yours sayin’ the same thing. Though I think she said it a mite different. Kinda like ‘He’s soooo fine,’” Buck sniggered.

“You are *so* full of bullshit,” Chris laughed. “Glad to see your sense of humor didn’t bleed right out of you.”

“Hell, it takes more than a bullet hole to put me off my feed.” His blue eyes narrowed. “Speakin’ of which, when are you gettin’ out of here?”

Chris shrugged. “A few days.”

“When are you gonna be back at work?”

“I may not be back.”    
Buck sat up straight in the chair at that. “What? Whaddya mean, you might not be back? What’ve those docs been tellin’ you?”

“It ain’t the docs, Buck. It’s me. It’s something I need to think about.”

“Why?”

“You, Ezra, Vin ...” Chris’s eyes went to the other bed, to the bit of Vin’s hair he could see spread across the pillow. “I don’t know anymore if the job is worth losing friends.”

“Come on, Chris. You n’me have been through wars t’gether. Junior ain’t exactly had a peaceful time of it, Ezra’s been undercover fer nearly as long as we’ve been with the ATF. It ain’t never spooked ya before.”

“There’s a difference between putting yourself in the line of fire and having somebody else shove you in the path of a bullet to save their own asses. I’m not made for betrayal. I never have been.”

“Chris –”

“I’m tired, Buck.”

“Sure you are, partner. You’re tired and maybe ya aren’t thinkin’ too clearly right now.”

“Or maybe I’m thinking clearly for the first time in a long time.”

Level green eyes met Wilmington’s. There was hurt there, and grief, but they were clear enough. Buck sighed. “Old pard, don’t jump any guns here, okay?”

“Sure.”

“How’s Junior?” Buck asked, changing a subject that was painful to him.

“He had a rough afternoon. Had to have an MRI.”

“Shit. I’ll bet that went over well.”

“Stone knows what she’s doing. She drugged him up.”

“And we all know how he loves that.” Buck grimaced.

“At least he’s sleeping. He needs it.”

Buck nodded. “Yeah, he’s had a real rough time. And so have you.” He stood up slowly. A thought occurred to him and he paused. “Has Travis been to see you?”

“This morning.”

“Hmmm.”

Chris raised a brow at that non-committal sound. “So?”

“Nothing. Just explains a lot.”

“Don’t give it more weight than that, Buck. My mind’s my own.”

“Rest up, partner. I’ll talk to ya later.” He paused at the doorway and winked. “I’ll stop by the nurses’s station and tell ‘em t’treat you an’ Junior real good.”

Chris groaned. “Don’t do us any favors.”

“Have you out of here in no time.” He ducked out of the way as Chris pitched a plastic cup at him. “Some folks jist don’t know gratitude unless it bites ‘em in the ass!”

Chris laughed, hands pressed to his stomach as his stitches pulled. There were times he wanted to kill the man, and times he wondered what he would do without him. If he left the job, would Buck follow as he had so often? Would he want to? Chris wasn’t ready to face that possibility. He turned his attention back to the paper, looking for distraction.

“So, the Rockies win?” Vin’s voice cracked and broke. He turned from his side to his back, his arm thrown over his eyes. “I feel like shit.”

Chris got out of bed and went to Vin’s side. “You need a nurse?”

“Nah, jist some water ‘r somethin’.”

Chris raised Vin’s bed slightly and held the straw to Vin’s lips. “Better?”

“Fergot that stuff leaves ya with a mouth like cotton.” He took a few more sips and struggled to sit up. He looked out the window. “Lord, how long’ve I been out?”

“A good while, now. Long enough for me to get a scan and have a visit from Buck.” He deliberately omitted the visit from Travis. He’d talk to Vin about that when the Texan was stronger, when *he* was stronger. Right now, he just wanted them both to heal up and get out of the hospital.

“He’s okay?”

“He’s discovered the value of a sling when it comes to getting sympathy from women.”

Vin rolled his eyes. “It figures. Guess ulcers and bum livers jist ain’t got the same romantic appeal.”

“Guess not. Tell you what. I’ll get something for you to drink with a little more flavor than water, okay?”

Vin nodded but gave him a sidelong look. “When ya git back we c’n talk about what you ain’t tellin’ me, Larabee.”

There were times when that one-brain thing he had going on with Tanner was downright scary. He didn’t want to discuss this with him, though. He wanted to hold it close to the vest like a bad hand of cards and see if he could bluff his way into convincing himself that leaving was really a good idea.

Chris brought two bottles of ginger-ale from the vending machine in the hall and returned to the room. Vin was out of bed and sitting in the small bay formed by the window and a bench seat. The emerging lights of Denver formed a backdrop for his silhouette. Chris handed him a bottle and sat down.

“Wish it was a beer out at the ranch,” he said.

“Yeah. Well, I reckon we’ll have time fer that.”

“What?”

Vin’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t see myself sittin’ b’hind a desk fer a week or two. Don’t think Doc Stone has that in mind fer either of us.” He paused. “That ain’t what you thought I meant.” He gave Chris a one-sided smile. “You gonna spill it?”

Chris sighed. “Travis was here.”

Vin’s soft snort of derision was indicative of his opinion of the situation. “He leave here with ever’thing intact?”

“More or less.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Chris didn’t answer that question. Instead, he asked another. “What would you do if you couldn’t do this job?”

“Couldn’t, or didn’t want to?”

“Either, I guess.”

“Don’t know. But then I git the feelin’ y’ain’t talkin’ about me.”

Chris sighed and leaned his head against the glass. “Shit.”

Vin studied him. He hadn’t known Larabee long by the calendar, but he could read his heart as if he’d known him for more than a lifetime. “Ya wouldn’t be happy, Chris.”

“This isn’t about happiness. It’s about survival.”

Vin nodded. “Survivin’ an’ livin’ ain’t the same thing. You’ve survived b’fore.”

Chris leaned forward dropped his head in his hands. Tanner knew too much, saw too much, and the damnable thing was that he was right. Chris had *survived* Sarah and Adam’s murders. He had *survived* his own dependence on alcohol. But he hadn’t started living again until he had established this team, and he hadn’t come to relish his life until Vin Tanner had walked through the door and completed his resurrection.

“You got any more pearls of wisdom?” Chris sighed wearily, but with a slight smile.

“Yeah. Go t’bed.” A warm hand spread across Chris’s back. “C’mon.”

Chris stood slowly. “Vin, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Sure ya do. You jist ain’t seein’ it clearly. Must be all them drugs they got pumpin’ through ya.” The warm hand exerted pressure to get him moving, and Chris, for once in his life, let somebody else guide him. He sank down on the bed, felt Vin lift his legs and then pull the blanket over him. His eyes closed, and he was down for the count.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
Chapter 37

The lights of metropolitan DC dropped away as the plane banked west. Orrin Travis stared blindly out the windows; not seeing the familiar landmarks, but replaying in his mind the meeting he’d had with the directors of the ATF and Treasury departments. The acrimony still lingered in his craw ...

He should have known better than to expect full contrition for the debacle, he should have realized that passing the buck had been perfected to an art form in the higher echelons. He should have ...

He sighed heavily. The stewardess hovering over him asked if he was all right and he nodded. When she asked if he would like a drink, he nearly kissed her. It was a long trip back to Denver and he needed some anesthesia. But when the drink came, he stared down into the amber depths and thought of Chris Larabee.

He was a good man, a better friend, an outstanding agent and team leader. His record spoke for itself. Travis had laid his case before his superiors, had argued that to lose somebody like Larabee was an incalculable error. He had told them that if they lost him, they might well lose the entire team. And if they lost the team, they would lose Travis as well. And he wouldn’t be shy about going to the media with the reasons why.

That had let the foxes loose in the henhouse. A grim smile touched his mouth. Mary would be pleased that the power of the press had accomplished more than the threat of losing an entire team *and* an assistant director. Damned bureaucrats. It had been too long since they had been in the field and faced live fire.

He didn’t have an apology, but in his briefcase he had the entire file on the D’Amico case. He would give it to Chris, and after he had read it, they’d talk. It was the only concession he could get, it was all he could do. The final decision rested with him. It always had.

Travis raised his glass in a silent toast to the men of Team Seven and drained it. Then he settled in for the long flight home.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris had always believed you could tell a lot about a person by looking at their office. He didn’t exactly want to reflect on how that psychology applied to himself, but it was interesting to use it to analyze Elizabeth Stone. And it kept anxiety at bay while he waited for his final consult at the hospital. He figured since she had suggested her office instead of his room that he was going to hear things that weren’t good news.

His gaze roamed the spartan room. A desk as cluttered as his own, but with an obvious method. A comfortable and utilitarian brown leather couch old enough to sag a bit. A sink, naturally. And on the counter nearby, a stained and well-used coffeemaker. The walls were the ubiquitous Band-Aid beige. But the drapes at the window looked expensive and handmade, patterned after a Navajo blanket. The plants on the sill were thriving and glossy. A small brass watering pot reflected the scattered light from the window overlooking the city. One wall was crowded with Dr. Stone’s framed diplomas and licenses. The lady had paid her dues, that was certain.

Chris’s fingers drummed nervously on the arms of his chair. He wished he had a cigarette ... or a drink ... and grimly thought neither of those was going to be an option in the near future.

He turned when the door opened and Dr. Stone came inside. She took off her lab coat and hung it on a wall hook, then sat at her desk. She looked tired, her eyes shadowed. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not like I had any pressing engagements. Kind of surprised you wanted to talk here.”

She sat back in her chair and studied him for a moment before she spoke. “I’m going to release you and Vin in the morning and I thought you’d rather have our talk in private.”

Chris scowled. “I haven’t had a *talk* since my dad did the obligatory sex lecture.”

She laughed. “This isn’t going to be nearly as embarrassing. Aren’t you pleased by the news?”

“The going home part sounds good. It’s the talk part that I’m not too keen to hear.” He sighed. “Come on, doc. Give it to me straight.”

“O-kay ... three simple rules. No smoking, no drinking, take your medication. See?”

She said it like it was as simple as A,B,C. Maybe for her, it was. Chris gave her a hard, unhappy look. “For how long?”

“Preferably for the rest of your life ... which will be much longer if you obey those three rules.”

He gave a brittle laugh. “I never figured on havin’ much of a long life, doc. It kind of comes with the territory.”

She smiled. “You’ve got what, thirteen years to retirement?”

He groaned. “So what’s your point?”

She looked at him, at the fire in his green eyes that was banked but never entirely extinguished even in pain and exhaustion. At the way his fingers were never still, and knew that for this man, retirement might never come, and if it did, it would be as unwelcome as death.

“Would you walk in the path of a bullet?”

“I’ve done it,” he said. “That’s my job.”

“Sorry, bad analogy. You would at least wear a bulletproof vest given the option, right?”

He was too tired to argue the point with her. “Maybe.”

She shook her head. He was the most maddening man she had *ever* met. “Look, Larabee, you’ll do what you want no matter what I say. So just pretend to listen to me, and what I don’t know is only going to hurt you.”

He grinned at that. “Go on, doc.”

“Okay, ideally you’ll take my advice. You’ll eat sensibly, stop smoking and drinking. Get lots of rest, and stay away from stress. In real life, you’ll try to eat regular meals and take your medicine if you need it. You’ll save your beloved cheroots for special occasions ... like weekends. You’ll limit your alcohol intake to wine with dinner – since you can justify that as medicinal, and maybe a couple bourbons a week. You’ll try to moderate your schedule, *delegate* some of your tasks to Buck, Nathan, and Josiah –”

“Not Vin?” His mouth quirked in a smile.

“Please! Like he needs any more problems!” Her gaze softened. He looked like he had just reached the end of his stamina. “I think you get the picture.”

“Yeah, I got it.” He pushed himself upright, wincing as his sutures pulled. “When do these come out?”

“Just a few more days.”

“Thank you, Dr. Stone.”

“What?” She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Had he *thanked* her?

“For what you’ve done for me, for Vin. I reckon most of the time we’re real thorns in your side, but we do appreciate what you do to keep us alive.”

Elizabeth Stone’s smile came as rarely as Chris’s, but this time it blazed out. “It’s always a challenge, Chris. Always a challenge.” She took his elbow. “C’mon, I’ll walk you to your room.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin sat in the alcove and stared out at the rainy twilight. He was cold, not outside, but inside, like there was a heavy chunk of ice in his middle. He’d felt it often enough in his life – when his mother died, when his grandfather passed on, when he’d been moved from foster home to foster home – like it was a harbinger of change and disaster.

He had forgotten what it was like to have that congealing chill in the pit of his stomach during the months he had been with Team Seven. It had thawed entirely the instant his eyes had met Chris Larabee’s and forged that connection of friendship and faith. The thought of losing that was more painful than thinking of his own death.

He sighed and leaned his head against the cool glass. He wasn’t a praying man; never seemed like the Lord had paid much mind to him, but there was a stubborn corner of his heart that still spoke to Him. A flicker of hope that not all was lost. He clung to that hope with all the strength he had. The hope that Chris would see his way clear to staying with the ATF. Because if Larabee didn’t, Vin wasn’t sure what his own future held.

There was a soft knock on the door and Vin looked up. “C’mon in. Join the party.”

“Seems like a pretty somber celebration,” Josiah said. He came over to the window. “Kind of matches the view. Where’s Chris?”

“Chattin’ with Doc Stone.” Vin rose slowly and made his way back to the bed. He sat on the edge, braced on his arms. “Should come back in a *real* good mood.”

Josiah chuckled. “We all have our crosses to bear, brother.” He folded himself into the cramped chair at the bedside. “Some of us bear ‘em gladly, some of us are more like Gladly, the cross-eyed bear.”

That brought a rare grin to Vin’s pale face. “Reckon that describes Larabee.” His smile faded. “’siah, you ever think about retirin’, leavin’ the job?”

The older man arched a brow. “Well, seeing as I’ve got less than five years to that mandatory date, sure I’ve thought about it. That’s why I’m plantin’ my garden today.”

Vin nodded, thought a minute before he spoke again. “You ever think Larabee’d quit?”

“I always figured they’d have to carry him out boots first. Are you thinkin’ something different?”

“I wasn’t, but I think he is. I think he might quit, Josiah, and if he does ... well, I can’t see my way to stayin’ in without him.” Vin’s eyes darkened. “Would you?”

Josiah leaned back in the chair, making the back creak dangerously under his weight. “Without Chris, those early retirement incentive packages would look mighty attractive.”

Vin was silent, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head and shoulders bowed. Even though he was wearing his own sweatpants, t-shirt and robe, he looked thin and vulnerable. Josiah knew he’d lost weight, and he wasn’t a man who could afford to lose much; all his body mass being in sinew and muscle.

Josiah pushed himself out of the chair and sat next to Vin. He set a broad hand on Vin’s shoulder, and his heart ached at the feel of the bone so close to the skin. He firmed his grip slightly. “You’ve been through a lot, Vin. You’ve been badly wounded, had an infection. You’re exhausted and run-down –”

“It ain’t that, Josiah!” He shrugged off his friend’s hand, even though the touch had been comforting. “I keep seein’ D’Amico fallin’ away from me. I was lookin’ into his eyes ... and he could ‘a held on. But he jist leaned back and let go. Like he wasn’t afraid a’ dyin’.”

“He wasn’t.” Vin’s eyes widened and Josiah smiled. “He was afraid of livin’.” Josiah set his hand back on Vin’s shoulder. “Would you have let him live, Vin?”

Vin’s head lifted slowly. “Ya think I’d a’ kilt him right there?” His blue eyes were troubled. “I don’t know. Mebbe I would ‘a kilt him fer what he did t’Chris. But I wanted *more*, Josiah. Chris an’ me ain’t the only ones hurt by him. I keep seein’ the kids dyin’ on the streets ‘cause they got guns he brung in ta town. Cops, firefighters ... maybe even us, dyin’. Lord, Josiah, we don’t know half a’ where he was funnelin’ his weapons and money.” His passion faded and he sighed desolately. “I should a’ had him, but I couldn’t hold him. I *couldn’t.* An’ that’s what hurts more ‘n anything.”

“It’s not your fault, Vin. Ya gotta let it go. Move on.”

“That’s what I’m afraid Chris is gonna do. Let go an’ move on.” Vin swallowed. “He’s holdin’ back on me, J’siah. He ain’t never done that.”

Josiah stroked Vin’s hair, comforting and gentle as the father he’d never known. “Son, I don’t think Chris even knows where this is gonna lead. As Ezra says, he’s holdin’ his hand close to his vest, that’s all. Why don’t you lie back down, Vin? You’re runnin’ on empty, here.”

He was. He didn’t even have the strength to comply with Josiah’s request. The big agent sighed, stood up, and gently forced Vin back to lie on the pillows. He swung his legs up on the mattress and pulled the blankets up, tucking them close. “You just rest up, son. Let all those worries and fears just drift away. The Lord’ll take care of you ...” He continued to talk in that rich, quiet, voice until he felt the tension leave the slim body beneath his hands. Then he settled as comfortably as he could into the excruciatingly uncomfortable chair and took up a watch over the sleeping sharpshooter.

He was still sitting there in the half-darkness when Chris returned to the room. He looked first at Vin sleeping quietly before he acknowledged the big man’s presence. “Josiah, is everything all right?”

“You tell me, Chris.”

Puzzled, Chris studied him. “I’d say so. Me and Vin are both being released in the morning.”

Josiah shook his head. “That boy ain’t in any shape –”

“Well, the docs say he is. And judging from the way he feels about being cooped up in here, he’s bound to heal better at home.” And when Josiah lifted a brow, Chris amended. “Or at the ranch.”

“He’s scared to death, Chris.”

“Vin?” Chris was startled. His eyes went to his partner’s thin form. Tanner wasn’t a man who gave away emotions easily, and he wondered how the profiler had come up with that analysis. “Vin’s not afraid of the devil, Josiah.”

“Oh, he’s too stubborn to give it that name, but he knows it. Probably better than he ought to, given the life he’s led.” His gaze rested sorrowfully on Tanner’s face. “An’ maybe he ain’t afraid of the devil, but he is afraid of is losing what he’s found with this team ... with you. He thinks you’re leaving the ATF. That true?”

Chris sighed and pulled his bedside chair next to Josiah. “I don’t know. Honestly, Josiah, this case has me so turned around inside, I don’t know what to think. I know we were betrayed. And the stink of that isn’t something a few words of commendation are going to sweeten.”

“Chris, I know you’ve got to do what is right for you ... but don’t make a decision without thinking of the impact your leaving will have on the team. You *are* the heart of us.”

Rare color rose in Chris’s face. “What is that saying about the whole being only as good as the sum of its parts?”

Josiah grinned. “A painfully neat sidestep, Chris. However, I won’t press you with it any further. At least not tonight.” He stood, laid a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “It’s true what I said. You think long and hard on this one, y’hear?”

“That’s a hell of way to talk to your boss, Agent Sanchez.”

“He’s a hell of a boss. And a hell of a friend. But right now, he looks like hell.” Josiah’s bright eyes softened. “Git your rest, Chris. Sounds like you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

Josiah swung his coat over his shoulder and gave Chris a salute. Chris sighed and leaned his head against the back of the chair. If he opened his eyes just a slit, he could watch Vin sleeping. The florescent light washed out what little color there was in his face, made him look pale and pinched. His own hands looked like they belonged to somebody else. The veins were ropey, the skin pallid and dry. He sighed heavily. He and Vin would both do better away from this place.

Suddenly, he wanted to be out at the ranch so badly he was tempted to call Buck and tell him to get his ass over here to take him home. *Get a grip, Larabee. Ten hours. You can take ten more hours.* For Vin’s sake, if for nothing else. Still, to be sitting out on his deck, to breathe air that didn’t smell like ozone and antibacterial cleanser, to eat food that had taste and texture ... It sounded like heaven even if the vision didn’t include a tumbler of whiskey and a good cigar.

“Chris?” Vin whispered sleepily.

“Yeah.”

“Ya fall asleep in that chair an’ yer gonna be in traction fer a week.”

“Thanks, pard.” Chris raised his aching bones out of the chair. “This time t’morrow we’ll be home.”

“Home?” Vin’s eyes opened wider. “Doc Stone is gonna let us out?”

“Yeah. That’s why you need t’get some sleep tonight. Vin, stay out at the ranch for a few days, okay?”

“You askin’ or tellin’?”

“Maybe a little of both.”

“Sure.” Vin’s voice was sleepy, like Adam’s had been when he was just on the verge of drifting off. Chris turned the light off over Vin’s bed, then climbed into his own, wishing his stitches didn’t pull every time he moved. He heard the whispers of the nurses, the sound of medication carts being wheeled down the corridor.

“Mr. Larabee, would you like something to help you sleep?” Winnie’s concerned voice made him open his eyes.

“Sure. My last night, might as well make it memorable.” Chris pushed himself upright and took the pill from the nurse. “Thanks.”

“It’s my job.” Winnie dimmed the overhead light and with a deft touch smoothed the covers, tucking in the sheets where they had pulled out near the foot of the bed. “Goodnight, Mr. Larabee.”

“’night.” The door closed slowly, blocking out external sounds. Chris listened to Vin’s quiet breathing, then he heard nothing.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Fog in St. Louis delayed Travis’s flight for nearly three hours. By the time he got into Denver, it was too late to do anything but call for a cab and go home. He fell into exhausted sleep so quickly and soundly that he scarcely noticed Evie’s soft kiss to welcome him home.

He dragged himself out of bed when the alarm sounded at 7am, showered, gulped down a mug of coffee and was out the door by 7:30. While he was driving to work, he got a call from his secretary, Gloria, who reminded him of a conference call with the director of the Phoenix office and his SAC, and that if he didn’t take it there would be hell to pay. So, instead of driving to the hospital, he had to get to the office and spend an hour on the phone talking about a coordinated training seminar scheduled for the following month. Travis didn’t tell Phoenix that there was a very real possibility that he might not have a team to send to the damn seminar. No use borrowing trouble.

Ten o’clock found him finally charging down the hospital corridor to Larabee’s room. He checked on the threshold. Two empty beds stripped of sheets greeted his eyes. He groaned and sat in a hard chair. *God damn.* His cell phone beeped and he answered to Buck Wilmington’s cheerful greeting.

“Good morning, sir. I thought I’d catch you before you went over to the hospital –”

“You’re too late.”

“I am sorry about that, sir. But I’m real glad to tell you that Chris and Vin are outta the hospital and here at the ranch.”

Travis closed his eyes. “Good. They’re all right, then?”

“Just fine, sir.

“Are they up to a visit?”

“I reckon that depends, sir.” Wilmington’s voice sounded suddenly cautious.

He couldn’t blame Wilmington for his protectiveness. He rubbed his hand over his forehead. “I just want to drop something off for Chris and to check up on the team. When would be a good time?”

“Well, just getting here took the starch outta both of ‘em. This afternoon would be better than right now.”

“How are you doing?” he asked, remembering that Wilmington had been wounded as well.

“Oh, I’ve still got plenty of starch in me.” The tone was jocular, but there was a hint of warning there and Travis had no doubt that it was fueled by anger and resentment. “Glad to hear it. I’ll be there around three?”

“We’ll be looking for you.” Buck’s end of the phone line cut off and Travis sighed. What did he expect? Open arms and warm smiles? Hardly. Tired, and feeling every one of his years, he called the office, said he was taking the rest of the day off to recover from jet lag, and went home.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

 

Vin woke to the sound of voices. He was momentarily confused by his surroundings; he remembered being in the hospital, but the voices there did not sound familiar, laughing, or warm the way that these did. The mattress was comfortable, the linen beneath his cheek was smooth and cool. The air drifting through the window was scented with hay and horse and sweet grass. He sighed, stretched. He remembered. He was out of the hospital and at the ranch. The voices belonged to Buck and JD. They were on the deck, the angle of the house funneling the sound of their voices to his window. He couldn’t hear the exact words, but he basked in the knowledge that he was safe, in the place he loved most in the world and in the company of friends.

The one voice he didn’t hear was Chris’s. That absence was what eventually forced him upright. He sat up, didn’t even bother looking for his boots, but padded into the hall. Across the way, the door to the master bedroom was closed. Vin carefully eased it open. The blinds were half-closed and the dim light just bright enough for him to see Chris stretched out on the bed. There was an ease in that long frame that he hadn’t seen in a while. He backed out and closed the door softly. He made his way to the den, then slid aside the screened door to the deck.

“Hey, Vin!” JD jumped out of his chair. “C’mon, sit down. I was just savin’ your place.”

“I’ve heard that b’fore,” Vin grinned at the young agent and eased down into the Adirondack chair. JD slid the ottoman under his legs. The sun was warm, but he was anemic enough yet that the slight breeze made him shiver.

A soft weight settled over his shoulders as Buck tucked an afghan comfortably around him. “That better? You warm enough, Junior?”

He grimaced slightly at the affectionate nickname. “Yeah. Thanks, Buck. Bet I look like yer old granny.”

Buck laughed. “You do at that, Junior. Only her whiskers was gray.”

“Geez, Buck! Thanks for that visual!” JD said in disgust. “You want something to drink, Vin?”

“Ginger ale?”

“You got it.”

Buck waited until JD was inside before he spoke. “Travis is comin’ over later this afternoon.”

Vin sighed. “So?”

“He said he had something for Chris.”

“Like another one of those *commendations?*” Vin’s disgust soured his voice. “Cain’t see Chris fallin’ fer that.”

“I don’t know. He sounded ... well, not like he would sound if he was angry. He sounded ... tired, I guess.”

Vin tipped his head back. “Hell, we’re all tired, Bucklin. I’m so tired right now I could lay down and die and it would feel good compared to the way I’ve been livin’ fer the last two months.”

Buck knelt at the front of the ottoman. “Don’t you say that!” he spoke sharply. “Y’ain’t gonna die, and Chris ain’t gonna quit on us.”

“I never said I’s gonna die. Jist that I’s tired enough,” Vin said patiently. “And I don’t know ‘bout Chris. He ain’t talkin’ much lately.”

“Lately?” Buck stood up. “Try never.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the rail of the deck. “And I gave up tryin’ to mind-read him long ago.”

Vin nodded, though for a long time, he had been able to read Chris’s mind. He didn’t know if that was because Chris had let him and was now choosing to block him out, or if his own weakness was responsible for the rift in their usually seamless comprehension. Whatever it was, it left him feeling cold and lonely. He sat in silence until JD returned with a glass of ginger ale, a glass of water, and one of his antibiotics. Vin raised a brow at the sight of the pill.

JD grinned. “Before he left, Nathan wrote out timetables for you and Chris with all your meds and when you’re supposed to take them.”

“Figures,” Vin grumbled, but he took the pill and chased it with water, followed by ginger ale. He was absurdly touched by the concern and care from his friends. He had grown up with so little of either he occasionally found the attention overwhelming, but he was never ungrateful.

JD settled on the steps, Buck on one of the cushioned lounge chairs. Vin sat quietly absorbing the tranquility and warmth. For the first time in weeks he felt the spring of tension slowly releasing. He closed his eyes and floated away. He didn’t hear the bell ring, didn’t hear Ezra join the group followed by Josiah and Nathan’s return. Buck steered them all to the den to keep them from disturbing the sleeping sharpshooter.

Ezra stood at the screened door and looked out. He could barely see Vin’s profile, but if the lax, long-fingered hand negligently draped over the arm of the chair were any indication, he was lost to the world. Ezra shook his head and turned back to the others.

“I ...” He shrugged, words not willing to come for one of the few times in his life. “Our friend seems to be resting comfortably.”

Nathan nodded. “He needs all the rest he can get. Needs t’heal.”

Ezra thought of the damage that had been done that went beyond the physical; the stress that could break a man in two, the betrayals, the distrust, the lies. Would rest heal those wounds?

“There’s wounds inside that don’t heal easily.” Ezra startled at Josiah’s voice echoing his thoughts. “And scars that run deep and cut to the heart.”

“B-but Vin and Chris ... they didn’t *do* anything wrong.” JD sounded puzzled.

“Never said it was something *they* did,” Buck said bitterly. He hadn’t said much to JD about Chris. Had said even less about Orrin’s role in the travesty this case had become. He took a breath, knowing that he had to tell the others that Travis was on his way. Wouldn’t be right not to let them know, and he wasn’t so charitable towards Orrin that he’d begrudge the others a chance to express their opinions of those damn commendations that were burning holes in their pockets.

“Orrin’s on his way over. He said he had something to give to Chris.”

“Another attempt to appease our less than appreciative natures?” Ezra drawled. “I fear that if presented with another one of those noxious documents I shall be unable to resist the temptation to tell the gentleman where to stuff it.” Sudden tension turned his soft voice ugly and harsh.

“Wait! What’s going on?” JD asked. “Did I miss something here?”

“JD ...” Buck sighed.

“No! Now, I know that *this* is an insult.” He took the commendation out of his jeans pocket and crumpled it, tossing it on the coffee table. “But that’s the way the system works. Don’t you all know that?”

“Chris is this far from quittin’,” Buck hissed, holding his forefinger and thumb a scant half-inch apart. “That’s what I know.”

JD sat down like he’d been deflated. What Buck had said was wrong, totally. JD shook his head. “Chris quit? No. No way.” A flicker of movement in the doorway caught his eye and he went pale, his eyes wide. “C-Chris?”

“You fellas mind not talking about me behind my back?” Chris stood in the doorway. His blue shirt was untucked, half open, his hair damp, like he’d run a wet comb through it. The black jeans weren’t nearly as tight on him as they had been a week ago. “Close your mouth, JD. I’m not gonna shoot you.” He smiled slightly and walked slowly over to one of the big recliners, lowering himself cautiously. “Where’s Vin?”

“Out on the deck, sleeping.” Nathan said, his eyes narrowed.

“Good.”

“You look like you could use some more rest yourself.”

“I’m f –” He stopped at the sight of Nathan’s glower, raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just gonna sit here and let you tell me what to do.”

“Wonder how long that will last?” Nathan grumbled. “I’ll get your meds while you’re still bein’ tractable.”

JD sat, his leg jiggling with impatience and nerves. “Is it true?” he finally asked, unable to contain himself any longer. “Are you leavin’ the ATF, Chris?”

Buck’s hand came down on his shoulder, cautioning him. “This ain’t the time,” he said in a low voice.

Chris sat forward. “Nothing’s been decided, JD.”

“But you thought of it? Chris, you can’t – I mean you wouldn’t ...”

“Nothing’s been decided,” Chris repeated. “That’s all I’m saying for now.” His eyes went to each man’s in the room. “I’ll let you know when that changes.”

“Orrin’s on the way over,” Buck said, watching Chris’s face for clues to his feelings on the matter. Nothing, not even a flicker of his eyelids. “You all right with that?”

Chris lifted a brow. “Do you think I can stop him?”

“No ... but I could tell him not to come.”

“Why?”

“I think what brother Buck is tryin’ to say is that if you’re not up to it, we can do this another time,” Josiah said gently. “Are you up to this, Chris?”

Before he had a chance to answer, the crunch of gravel on the driveway made him straighten in his chair. “I reckon I’ll have to be.” He started to stand, but JD beat him to it.

“I’ll get it, Chris.” He disappeared into the hallway.

They heard Travis’s gravelly voice and JD’s lighter tones. Their voices grew louder, were joined by Nathan’s. Ezra drifted imperceptibly towards the screen door, casting a look to see if Vin was still sleeping in the chair. Buck moved to stand next to Chris’s chair. Josiah felt the circle closing. He looked at Chris; pale, still, the muscle jumping at the angle of his jaw.

Then Travis was standing in the doorway, a thick manila folder tucked under his arm. Too thick to be more pointless commendations. He went right to where Chris sat and silently offered him the folder. “It’s not enough, but I hope it helps.”

Chris stood. He made no move to take the folder. Five pairs of eyes were focused on the two men, nobody noticed the hiss of the screen sliding open.

“Sounds like yer offerin’ blood money,” Vin’s soft rasp of a voice startled everyone. He stepped over the threshold, paced over to Travis and halted in front of him, standing shoulder to shoulder with Chris.

Orrin had no doubt that no matter how weakened Tanner was, he was still lethal. There had always been that fierce heart of him barely restrained by his quiet civility. Orrin wouldn’t deny him his anger, wouldn’t spare himself from the hot, blue flame that burned in the sharpshooter’s eyes.

“It’s the official report on the D’Amico investigation going back ten years. If that’s blood money, then so be it. You’re entitled to the information.”

“Is this the unexpurgated, un-Bowdlerized version or has it been sanitized for general consumption?” Ezra drawled. Distrust shone in his green eyes, and he moved from his position near the door to join Vin, Chris, and Buck.

Travis had the unsettling feeling that he was standing on a dusty street facing a team of gunslingers. These four agents were the men who had born the brunt of the violence, the pain and the damage caused by the investigation. They had every right to their anger and he deserved every harsh word and every hard look they were giving him.

“It is complete. Background, IAD investigations, Treasury, ATF. Everything. I read it before I left DC. If it weren’t complete, I wouldn’t have brought it to you.”

Chris took the folder. “We’ll read it.” Not, *I’ll read it.*

Travis nodded. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll wait.” And then because there was nothing else to say and nobody seemed about to offer him a drink, or even speak to him, he swept his gaze around the room. “I’ll see myself out.” And he left.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Through the silence, Chris heard a faint buzzing in his ears and part of him said he ought to move, breathe, act, but he couldn’t. He was vaguely aware of Vin’s shoulder against his, of Buck’s solid strength next to him. But that seemed as unreal as the rest of the world around him. His hand holding the file was numb and the stiff folder started to slide from his fingers. He made no move to stop it, watched it fall in slow motion, saw JD grab for it and catch it by a corner. Then his knees folded and if not for Buck’s quick catch around his waist, he would have been on the floor. Instead, he was lowered to the chair and Nathan was at his side, his fingers on Chris’s pulse. He ordered JD to get the medical kit he kept in the linen closet.

The others watched in silence, worry written on each face. JD returned a bit breathlessly and shoved the apparatus into the medic’s waiting hands.

“You in any pain, Chris?” Nathan asked, fastening the Velcro blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“No.” Chris’s head was clearing, he started pushing Nathan away. “I’m fine. I was just standing too long.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He scowled at the digital read-out. “That’s why your pressure’s in the gutter an’ your heart’s gallopin’ a mile a minute.” He stuck the digital thermometer in Chris’s ear, grunted in satisfaction. “Ya don’t have a fever. Buck, get Chris some water.”

“Told you I’m fine,” Chris insisted.

Vin’s hand hadn’t left Chris’s shoulder since he’d collapsed. “Seems like I heard that b’fore, cowboy.”

Nathan glared up at him. “You set yourself down, Tanner. I ain’t scrapin’ your skinny ass off the floor, too.”

“I’m f ...” He took a look at Nathan’s stony countenance and meekly moved back and sat in the second recliner. No sense in getting him any more riled than he already was. An irritated Nathan Jackson was likely to carry tales to Doc Stone or Rain, and the last thing Vin wanted was to irritate either of those formidable women.

Chris downed the water Buck brought to him, and when Nathan took his blood pressure again, he nodded, pleased. “Better. But you get yourself to bed. You ain’t nearly as healed as you think you are. Shouldn’t have been out here in the first place.”

“Where was I supposed to be, Nathan?” Chris said irritably. “It’s my house and I’m not a prisoner or your patient, so back off.”

Nathan recognized frustration and barely disguised rage. He laid a hand on Chris’s arm. “Okay, you stay here, keep your legs elevated. You need somethin’ t’eat anyway. Josiah got Doc Stone’s approval, made some chicken soup and some bread. You up to it?”

Chris wasn’t. But common sense told him he had to eat even though the file JD had set on the table lingered at the corner of his vision. He wasn’t sure he had the stomach to face it just yet. He took a breath, nodded. “Yeah, sounds good to me. Vin?”

Tanner looked like he could use some nourishment; too pale, too thin; curled in the frame of the big recliner. “Sounds good,” he said, but his eyes were locked on Chris’s, concern furrowing his forehead. He figured if he ate, Chris would eat. What would happen after that, he didn’t know, didn’t want to speculate.

It seemed neither did any of the others. They made a meal of Josiah’s soup and bread complimented by salad and followed by coffee and chocolate cake Ezra had purchased on the way to the ranch. Chris skipped the cake and the coffee, but he had to smile at the expression on Vin’s face as he tucked into a piece of the lavishly frosted confection; sheer, childlike delight that did more good for Chris’s heart than a whole wall of commendations and apologies.

After dinner, they watched TV, flipping between the baseball game and a slate of old westerns on one of the cable channels. When Vin fell asleep in the recliner, Josiah carried him to the spare bedroom, waited while Buck persuaded Chris it was time for him to do the same, and caught a ride home with Ezra. Nathan would stay out at the ranch for a few days to make sure that Chris and Vin didn’t have any medical setbacks. Buck and JD stayed on long enough to finish the ball game and then left for town.

After a final check of Chris’s BP and temperature, Nathan finally got him settled in and went to shut down the house for the night. He carried the last of the dishes into the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, turned it on. He returned to the den and sank down on the couch, took out his cell phone, and called Rain.

“Hey, hon.” She sounded tired. “How are things out there?”

“Quiet.”

“Think it will stay that way?” Amusement crept into her voice.

He laughed softly. “I wouldn’t play poker with Ezra on it.” He heard her muffle a yawn. “I’d better let you get some sleep.”

“I’d sleep better with you next to me,” she said.

“Honey, if I was next to you, sleepin’ would be the last thing we’d be doin’.”

“Come home soon.”

“Day after tomorrow, I promise. Jes’ as soon as I know these two won’t be relapsing.”

“Love you.”

“And I thank God for that every single day.” He sighed, reluctant to end the conversation but knowing his wife was on the verge of drifting off to sleep. “Love you, Rain.” He hung up, turned off the lights and retired to bed.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris thought he’d sleep solidly his first night at home without the interruptions and noise of the hospital environment. Instead, he was wide awake at 3am, not tired and not in any particular pain. The thought of that folder nagged at his mind and he knew he wouldn’t get any rest until he sat down with it and puzzled it out. He got out of bed and put on his robe. The hallway was dark, but a faint glow of light showed from the kitchen. He headed that way, wondering if Nathan had left the light on for a particular reason.

It wasn’t Nathan, it was Vin, sitting at the table with a plate of chocolate cake and a glass of milk. He gave Chris a sheepish look when he saw him standing in the doorway. “M’own stomach woke me up.”

Chris laughed quietly and sat down. “Got news for ya, pard. That cake ain’t gonna help you sleep.”

“Hell, I spent the last week sleepin’.” He pushed the plate over. “You want some?”

Chris shook his head, then reconsidered. Took a bite, and then a second one. “Good.”

Vin got up, poured a second glass of milk and set it in front of Chris. He held up his casted hand and grimaced. “This is gettin’ to be old news real fast,” he sighed. “Reckon I ought ta be grateful it’s not my right hand.”

“You shouldn’t have to be grateful for anything that bastard did to you.” Anger poured through Chris and he pushed his chair back. Let’s take this into the den.” Chris carried both glasses and set them down on the coffee table. He and Vin sat on the couch, not saying much. Chris stared at the folder.

“It’s jist paper and words.”

“Men have died for words and paper. *We* nearly died for words and paper.”

Vin looked at him intently. “What’re you afraid of, Chris?”

“What?” Chris almost jerked away from him, but found he couldn’t refuse to meet Tanner’s study. Vin had seen things in Chris that he had never known existed, and he saw this, too.

Fear.

Why? What was he afraid of? Not Travis or Williams, not D’Amico and whoever was left behind to run his organization. Not even of death – he had faced it often enough in his life and since Sarah and Adam had died, he feared it even less. He looked at Vin, his eyes dark; their depths hiding nothing.

“I’m afraid that if I read this, I will find something I missed. Something years ago when I was in Phoenix that might have prevented all this from happening. I’m afraid I’ve failed.” The last word was bitter and choking as ash.

Vin made a dismissive *tcha* in his throat. “So what? Say ya did find somethin’ like that – ya cain’t change it, ya cain’t *fix* it. If ya told somebody back then, would they have listened to ya?” He leaned forward, facing Chris squarely. “Would you be here? Would ya have the team? Would *I* be here, talkin’ to ya?” He shook his head. “Chris, life goes the way it wants ta go and it ain’t always the way ya want it to head. I tell ya straight, if ya’d never come t’Denver, most likely I’d be dead, ‘r lyin’ disgraced somewheres in an alley.” He took Chris’s arms in his hands. “Y’ain’t never failed at anything, partner. Ya ain’t never failed at life.”

Chris felt tears burning behind his eyes, but he couldn’t look away from Vin, couldn’t turn away from that faith, that trust he saw shining in the blue depths. It was just about the longest speech he’d ever heard Tanner make. Vin didn’t waste words any more than he wasted a shot, and every syllable was weighted with sincerity.

He closed his eyes, felt the moisture gather beneath his lids and gave up trying to stop the tears from falling. Vin’s hands stayed on his arms. Chris let him hold on and hold him up until he steadied. He drew back and dragged the sleeve of his robe across his face. Vin went to the bar and filled a glass with water. Chris took it, drank it down. “You tell anybody about this and you’ll be ridin’ a desk for the next six months.”

The threat was an idle one, a standing joke. Vin’s mouth turned up in a crooked grin. “I’m shakin’ in m’boots.”

“You aren’t wearing boots.”

“And I ain’t shakin’ neither.” His hand rested lightly on Chris’s shoulder. “There ain’t nothin’ in that report that’ll change the team, change *us.* Yer my friend, Chris. But y’ain’t no saint and ya ain’t perfect – hell, I reckon I’m no poster child fer livin’, either – but we’ve come this far t’gether and I’ll be here with ya fer as long as I’m breathin’.”

Once again that damnable prickle behind his eyes. This time Chris willed it away. He managed to take a breath and speak in a steady voice. “Thanks, partner.” There were other words that he might have said, but they weren’t important, not between him and Vin. What they owed each other was freely given and received. It always had been and always would be.

Chris looked at the folder again, but made no move to pick it up. That was for later, when he would be stronger, when the faith Vin had placed in him would be rooted firm and able to withstand the doubt and self-abnegation that Chris knew would hover over his memories like gathering storm clouds.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Two weeks later, Chris was back at work. Thin still, and pale, but upright and functioning. Vin came into the office with him; though he wasn’t officially back on active duty and he wasn’t happy about being left at the ranch. He had joked that it would take him a while to finish the paperwork that had piled up during the D’Amico case and Chris had agreed, more to keep an eye on the healing Texan than to push him to finish any outstanding reports.

Ezra was seemingly back to his normal unquenchable self, but once in a while Chris caught a look in his eyes that told him his wounds weren’t entirely healed. The others, while not as closely involved in the case, were more watchful than Chris was comfortable with, but aware that it was their friendship that made them that way. And as long as he and Vin looked like frail ghosts of themselves it would continue. He hoped that by seeing them both at work the others would gradually back off and get on with their lives.

And there were times he wished a man could die more than once, because nothing would give him greater pleasure than to wrap his hands around D’Amico’s throat and squeeze. About the only thing he could really do was to figuratively strangle the organization that had been left behind. To do that, he had to read the file Travis had given him. He’d been in classic avoidance mode, putting it aside, shoving it under newspapers, finding too much busy work even in his weakened state to really sit down and read it.

Every now and then he’d catch Vin watching him speculatively and he’d lash out at the one person who had shared the pain and heartache with him day after day. He didn’t even know how to frame a damn apology for it, and could only be grateful that Vin seemed to understand him better than he understood himself.

And the report was still staring him in the face. Paper and words, that was what Vin said it was ... not bullets and knives to strike to his heart. The power to hurt, but also the power to heal. Chris rose and stood by the window, looking out over the city he called home. Purgatorio was out there, disguised by the glittering facades of the skyscrapers, and beyond that, half-hidden by the haze, were the mountains and at the foothills of those mountains, his ranch. His home, his friends, his life; all of it in danger of destruction from men like Troy D’Amico. Keeping it, keeping them safe was the reason he stayed in the job. Even in the days when he’d wanted to drink himself to death, when he’d sought it in the night, it was the damn job that kept the scale from tilting entirely towards eternal darkness.

Then Buck had been there, and Travis with the offer that had saved his sanity and his soul. Build a team, he’d said. The best. Instead of picking the best, he’d picked the outcasts, the misfits. Men who were as scarred and damaged as himself. Travis had been concerned, had probably kicked himself more than once for making the offer as he watched Chris assemble Team Seven. Well, he’d gotten what he’d paid for – and more than he’d ever bargained for. Chris still wondered if he regretted it at times. Maybe someday he’d ask.

He returned to his desk and picked up his phone. “Buck, no calls unless the building’s on fire and the alarms aren’t working.”

“Sure, Chris.”

He heard the concern in Wilmington’s voice and smiled. “Thanks.” He took a breath and opened the folder.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

When he next looked up, it was because the growing twilight was making it difficult to read the print. His head throbbed and his throat hurt. He closed the folder and rubbed his tired eyes. The water carafe on his desk was nearly empty. He stood up stiffly, feeling old. Old and dry as bones in the desert.

He looked at his watch. Lord, he’d been reading for three hours. He’d been lost for those three hours; the past coming to life despite the impersonal, official tone of the file. Names he hadn’t thought of in years, agents who were gone one way or another. Cases that he’d closed and sealed. And too many common threads running through them.

He wondered if he had been given all the threads years ago, the warp and weft would have come together in a discernable pattern. Instead, they had been woven by other hands into a tapestry of lies and omissions of which Ed Williams had been only one thread ... maybe the rotten one that weakened the fabric, but just one nonetheless.

The design had never been in Chris’s hands. And the weavers of deceit would have to deal with the consequences, not him. Not his team. Not ever again.

Chris stretched out his back, hearing the knobs of bones creak in protest. He was much too young to feel this damn old, wasn’t he? He laughed a bit at himself and took his jacket off the hook by the door. It wasn’t until he turned off his lights that he noticed they were still on in the outer office.

He opened the door and six men stood as one. Chris swallowed hard, tried to find some composure as his gaze swept over his team. JD, Buck, Nathan, Josiah, Ezra, Vin, the ghost of his own reflection in the glass. The Magnificent Seven. Maybe it was a conceit, but it was closer to the truth than the jealous would ever admit.

He took a breath. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. Then when JD’s eyes got big as saucers, he grinned and amended, “Until tomorrow.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

They went to Inez’s. It was more of a homecoming than a celebration. Vin, released from the doctor’s dietary strictures, ordered a plate of his beloved chilies rellenos and a beer and Chris sipped the one whiskey Dr. Stone allowed him. It tasted too damn good and he knew he’d want another much too soon. Judging from the frown on Nathan’s face he wouldn’t get a chance for it.

So, he sipped it slowly. The others, all but Vin who was sunk in his habitual slouch and silence, were talking about anything but the job. The Rockies, the Broncos, Buck’s relentless teasing of JD about his romance with Casey Wells. Josiah and Nathan arguing with Ezra about something – anything – just to get the smooth Southerner’s dander up. And Inez, working the floor, checking to see if her favorite customers needed or wanted anything. All but Buck – she knew what he wanted clearly enough and it wasn’t refills on his beer.

Chris exchanged a look with Vin. It was like watching a show put on for their benefit. Something to keep them from thinking too much of the darkness. Chris knew he’d have to tell them the short version of what he had read that afternoon, but not yet. Not tonight.

Soon enough his whiskey was gone and he felt the long day begin to drag at him. Vin pushed himself upright. “Hey, cowboy. You ready to get outta here?” he asked.

“Yeah.” He thought Vin was looking a bit translucent himself.

Vin must’ve thought the same about him. “You wanna bunk at my place? That ride back to the ranch ain’t lookin’ too good.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He stood up, set a hand on Buck’s shoulder. “You’ve got the check, right, Buck?”

“Aw hell!” Buck exclaimed. “I knew there was a hitch here.” But he was smiling as he said it. He grinned up a Chris. “I got the check. You get yer rest.” He tilted his head another fraction to see Vin. “That goes for you, too, Junior.”

Vin gave him a sketchy salute, and he and Chris left the others to finish their drinks.

When they were gone, Buck turned to Josiah. “Well, you got any words of wisdom here?”

Josiah gave Buck a level look. “What do you want me to say?”

“Shit, Josiah! I ain’t a head case! Ya don’t hafta feed me any psychobabble and answer m’questions with another one. I jist wanta know if Chris seemed okay to you.”

Josiah’s brow lifted. “He seemed ... relieved. Like he’d come to a decision, had a burden lifted from his mind.”

“And what decision do you think he arrived at?” Ezra asked quietly. “I think we all are dreading the same conclusion.”

JD spoke up before Josiah could answer. “He said he would see us in the office tomorrow. I thought maybe he meant that ... that everything was okay. That he’d decided to stay on.”

“I don’ know, JD. He’s lookin’ mighty fragile, still. And so’s Vin.” His dark, solemn gaze touched each of them. “If they walk, they walk together.”

“We can’t let them,” JD said.

Buck shook his head. “Kid, we ain’t got no say in this. Chris’ll do what’s right for him. He’s been here before facin’ this decision. He stayed then, I jist don’t know about now.”

JD looked unhappy. “I’m going home. See you there, Buck.”

“It seems a pall has descended on our little gathering,” Ezra sighed and leaned back in his chair. “And I, for one, have run out of insights.”

“You ain’t the only one,” Nathan said. He stood up. “But Rain’s waitin’ for me and she’s a hell of a lot prettier than you all.”

Josiah looked at Buck and shrugged. “C’mon, Buck. I’ll split the tab with you. Make Ez and Nathan pick it up next time.”

“Ah, sweet justice,” Buck said. He clapped a hand on Josiah’s broad shoulder. “Thanks, Josiah.”

They settled the tab with Inez and the two men walked to their vehicles. When they reached Josiah’s suburban he paused, gave Buck a measuring study. “Do you really think Chris is going to quit?”

Buck shook his head. “Chris ain’t never quit anything in his life, Josiah. I reckon he won’t give this up easy. Maybe he’ll prove me wrong. I sure hope not.” The moonlight silvered Buck’s skin as he looked up and drew in a breath. “A few prayers wouldn’t hurt, I reckon.”

“Amen, brother. Amen.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The same moonlight woke Vin later that night; he felt it like a faint pressure on his eyelids drawing him awake. He was aware of an ache in his back and remembered that he had made Chris take the bed while he bunked on the sofa. He tried turning away from the window and ignoring the light, but he was awake and the first night back in his apartment felt as unfamiliar as if he were sleeping in a motel.

He sat up, combed through the tangled waves of his hair with his fingers. He went over to the tall window and looked out. Even Purgatorio was sleeping tonight. He wandered around his apartment, touching his things, grounding himself again. The apartment was clean; his downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Olivero, had been keeping things dusted and swept for him. She’d moved the clutter around but hadn’t really straightened up. Vin’s fingertip brushed over the CD Ezra had given him in the hospital weeks earlier. It seemed, and nearly had been, a lifetime ago.

He opened up the case and took out the second disk. He popped the tray on his stereo and turned the volume low. He sat and rested his head against the back of the couch, listening. He didn’t understand all the words, though some of them weren’t so different than Spanish, but the pain ... that he knew.

“Ain’t your usual style, pard.” Chris’s voice, rough with sleep, broke the brief silence.

Vin turned off the stereo. “Sorry, Chris. I didn’t mean t’wake ya.”

“You didn’t. My bladder did.” He sat next to Vin, rubbed his eyes and swept his hand over his blond hair in a futile attempt to smooth down the sleep-mussed tufts. “What’s your excuse?”

Vin shook his head. “Too used to the ranch, I guess. Time to get back to real life.”

“Yeah.” Chris’s voice was soft, tinged with something that sounded a lot to Vin like regret.

“Chris ... ya been playing those cards in yer hand mighty close to the vest. Mebbe it’s time ya decided t’hold ‘em or fold ‘em.”

Chris’s eyes were glinted silver and jade. “I’ve decided,” he said. Vin didn’t do anything but arch one expressive brow, waiting. Vin’s patience was the one thing Chris appreciated the most about the taciturn Texan. It was a virtue Chris had never developed with any degree of success. “Can’t say it was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”

“Hell, easy’s overrated,” Vin said. “So, when did ya make this decision?”

“Not until tonight. Maybe not until just a few minutes ago.” Chris took a breath. “I’m staying.”

Vin nodded, a comprehending, satisfied jerk of his chin. He didn’t trust his voice, not with the swell of emotion in his throat. After a bit, with Chris’s slightly amused scrutiny fixed on him, he smiled. “Bucklin’s gonna kill ya fer draggin’ this out,” he said.

“I didn’t drag it out.”

“You know that, an’ I know that. Buck don’t.”

“He’ll survive.” Chris sat back, easier now than he had been in a very long time. “How did you know, Vin?”

“That night out at the ranch ... I figured if you was gonna quit, ya would have read that report a hell of a lot sooner than ya did, ‘cause ya wouldn’t care what happened in the past. You’d’ve walked away without a backward glance.”

“Would you have walked with me?”

“To Hell and back, pard.”

“We’ve been there,” Chris said. He held out his hand and Vin’s hand closed over his forearm as firm and true as it had been the first time they had met.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris was as nervous as if he were starting a new job, the feeling similar to the first time he’d taken the elevator up to Travis’s office. He still wasn’t sure what he would say to the assistant director. He had to assume that Travis would be obliged to make a report to his supervisor and so on up the line. He figured sooner or later it would come back to haunt him, but life was too much of a gamble to take odds on when that might happen. His unquestioned support of the Bureau in the past might tip the balance in his favor, but he had never been one to play political games and wasn’t about to start now.

Gloria looked up and smiled at him. “Welcome back, Agent Larabee.”

“Thank you.” Polite but a bit distracted. “I have an appointment with AD Travis.”

“He’s expecting you.” She pushed a button on her console. “Agent Larabee is here, sir.” She nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.” Again, a smile. “You can go in.”

Chris went in. Travis peered at him over the half-glasses he wore. The lenses did nothing to veil the shrewd gray eyes. Chris sat down and waited for Travis to make the first move. Travis removed his glasses and continued to study Chris as if he were trying to discern the answers to his questions without asking them. Chris could stonewall with the best of them and eventually Travis sighed and sat back in his chair.

“Settling back in?” he asked. As if Chris had already told him his decision.

Chris drew a breath. “Why don’t you just ask the big question, Orrin?”

Travis gave a dry chuckle. “Vin Tanner doesn’t have anything on you when it comes to drawing a bead on a target. All right.” He held out the letter of resignation Chris had given him. “Do I mail this, or rip it up?”

“Put in my file. I’d hate to have to write another one.” He couldn’t quite keep from smiling. “It’s a damn fine letter.”

Travis’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Hard to write?”

“Writing it was easy. Deciding what to do with it was hard.” He paused and leaned forward in his chair, all levity gone from his voice and eyes. “It wasn’t a decision I made lightly and it’s not irrevocable. I won’t – I can’t – work in the dark. I won’t put my team through that again. The job is dangerous and we know it. Hell, there’s times when we *love* it. But to have that knowledge abused, to be unwittingly set in harm’s way because it suits some bureaucratic intent, is inexcusable. I’ll walk, Orrin. And my team will walk with me.”

“I can’t protect you, Chris.”

“Yes, you can.” Chris’s level gaze burned into Travis’s. “I’m not asking you to compromise state secrets. Just don’t assume that I will follow a blind path. I’ll lay down and die for my country, for my fellow agents, for innocent lives, but I won’t lay down and die for the self-interests of those cold-hearted bastards in Washington *ever* again. My life’s worth more than that. And God knows the lives of those six men are worth ten times my own.” Chris rose and rested his hands on Travis’s desk. “God help you, if anything happens to any one of them because you were holding back.”

“I don’t take kindly to threats.” Travis said. Harshly, but not without compassion. His part, however unwilling or unwitting, in the D’Amico cover-up, still kept him up at night. Evie had gone so far as to suggest he contact a physician for sleeping pills. Orrin knew that the outcome of this discussion would either kill or cure him.

“Was it a threat?” Chris asked. “I meant it as a promise.” He backed off, nearly collapsed in his chair. “I’m tired, Orrin. Tired and sick. But I’m staying.” He gave a soft breath of laughter. “Hell, I don’t know why, but I’m staying.”

Travis’s brow rose and his voice turned wry. “Because you’re the most stubborn sonofabitch ever born?”

Chris grinned. “Hell, I learned stubborn from a master of the art.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. A guy who also taught me a lot about leadership and duty and the way to earn respect. I got a feeling he might still have some lessons to teach me.”

Orrin’s eyes gleamed. “And sometimes the pupil reminds the master of lessons he’s forgotten. Chris ... I’m pleased and honored that you’ve decided to give me and the bureau another chance. It’s more than we deserve.”

Chris shrugged. “Maybe it is, but you know us stubborn sonsofbitches. Sometimes we just gotta prove that we’re right.” He held out his hand and Orrin closed both of his over it tightly.

“Get out of here, Agent Larabee. Some of us have work to do.”

“Yes, sir.” Chris gave the AD a brief salute and left the office.

Gloria was sitting perfectly still at her desk as if expecting a nuclear detonation at his exit. “Agent Larabee, is everything all right?” she asked a bit tremulously.

“Relax, Gloria. The ship isn’t sinking and the voyage can go on,” he said with a half-smile at her evident relief. He took a deep breath and headed for the elevator. He had a job to do.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

It was one of those days when the letters on Vin’s computer screen refused to form themselves into recognizable patterns. Right now, he lacked the concentration to force them into legibility. He sighed and scrubbed his eyes.

A warm hand on his shoulder made him look up. Ezra was standing at his side with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Mr. Tanner, I fail to see why you are forcing yourself into an incipient migraine by staring at that monitor. Surely, those reports have a low priority on today’s agenda.” He set the mug on Vin’s desk. “French roast, milk, and three sugars.” He shuddered at that desecration. “I believe that is your preference.” He leaned forward, “And it is not as though any of your compatriots are capable of focusing on the tasks at hand.”

Vin looked around. JD was playing a desultory game on his computer. Buck was making a daisy chain of paperclips, Josiah seemed to be reading a book, until Vin noticed that his eyes were focused somewhere in the middle distance, not on the pages in front of him. Nathan was doodling ... something. He gave a soft chuff of laughter. “Yeah, I reckon yer right, Ez. Thanks fer the coffee.”

“You know, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Vin said softly, not meeting Ezra’s eyes. “But it ain’t fer me t’say one way ‘r another.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Ezra sighed. But he had been hopeful.

“B’sides there ain’t no tellin’ what’s goin’ on up in Travis’s office. Might change the whole situation. Chris ain’t the most patient feller I ever met.”

“Surely our esteemed assistant director will do his best to keep Mr. Larabee in the fold.”

“Sure, Travis would. But who knows what kinda pressure he’s gettin’ from up top.” Vin pushed away from his desk. “I need some air.” He took off, leaving Ezra looking after him and the others startled by the whirlwind of his departure.

He rode the elevator to the third floor, then took the stairs down to the plaza in front of the building. He felt dizzy, suffocated by the tall buildings looming over him. There was a small park across the way and he crossed the street, risking a jaywalking ticket. He sat on a bench and leaned his head into his hands. Hell, Chris was right; he should have taken another few days to recuperate. But he had to be here for Chris. He had to know that D’Amico hadn’t destroyed his world.

He looked at his watch. He should be getting back, but the sound of the wind whispering through the leaves was more soothing than the hum of air conditioning and computer fans. He leaned his head back, felt the caress of the breeze through his hair and across his skin.

He heard footsteps on the gravel and a heavy weight settling on the bench beside him. He tipped his head to the side and opened his eyes. “J’siah.”

The big man sighed and stretched out his legs, mimicking Vin’s posture. “It’s nice out here.”

“Chris back yet?”

“He is.”

“I reckon I should get back up there, then.” But he made no move to rise from the bench.

“Vin, you all right?” Josiah’s concern softened his voice.

Vin shook his head. “I ain’t in pain no more and there ain’t anything wrong fer Rain or Doc Stone to fix. So, yeah, I guess I’m healed up all right.”

“That’s not what I was asking, son.”

There was a long silence before Vin asked softly, “Why is it so damn hard to put one foot in front of the other, Josiah?”

Josiah looked at him, smiled. “Because you can never really know where that next step is gonna take you. It’s a scary thought, particularly if you’re walkin’ that path alone.” Josiah gripped his shoulder. “But you’re not walking it alone. You know that.”

“I jist cain’t take that next step without Chris.” He laughed softly. “What kind a’ coward does that make me?”

“The same kind of coward we all are.” Josiah raised a brow, studying the young man and wondering what would have made him say that. “I thought you knew Chris’s decision.”

“He told me he was gonna stay on, but that was last night. Things change.”

“Impermanence and uncertainty ... hard things for anybody to bear.” He didn’t add that it was particularly true in a life such as the sharpshooter had led. He gave Vin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You won’t have to bear it today or tomorrow. And after that about all we can do is take one day at a time.”

Vin’s mouth curved and he pushed his hair away from his face. “Guess we oughtta git back up there.”

“Vin, D’Amico is dead. You and Chris are alive. He didn’t take anything from you that you can’t get back. It might take some time, but your heart and soul will heal just the way your body has.”

Vin stood and loosened up his back muscles, still feeling the old dull ache in his spine. Some things, like that congenital curvature, wouldn’t heal; some things you had to live with day to day like Josiah said. He could do that. He looked down at the profiler. “You comin’ with me or jist stayin’ here soakin’ up the sun?”

Josiah grinned. “I am sorely tempted.” But he rose and together he and Vin returned to the office.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra was standing at the window. He had a clear if very tiny view of the park below. He could see Vin and Josiah sitting on a park bench; Josiah seeming to offer advice and Vin finally rising, waiting for Josiah to follow. Ezra envied the ease between the young agent and the older profiler. They seemed to have a rapport that Ezra often felt lacking in his life. Part of that was Maude’s doing, part of it was his own nature: he often wondered how much one was based on the other. If Maude had instilled trust in him instead of wariness and deceit, perhaps he would have been able to build the sort of friendships he saw between the others. Then he considered Vin’s background; a childhood spent in the child welfare system, on the streets, in the army as a trained killer ... and yet, he had become one of the team more easily than Ezra had.

A faint smile touched his mouth. There might be hope for him yet.

He finished his coffee and sat at his desk, the beginning of a plan forming in his mind. Still smiling, but trying to hide it, he logged onto his computer and went online. He finished just as Vin and Josiah returned to the office.

He could see Vin’s eyes go unerringly to Chris’s office and read the unasked question in them. He nodded his answer and Vin responded with a lift of his chin, a communication that was as economical and effective as words, if not quite the intense mental link he seemed to share with Chris. With that realization came a feeling that the reticent sharpshooter had bestowed a rarely earned honor on him. Maybe he wasn’t as far from being accepted as he thought ... and wondered what was causing that odd ache in the center of his chest. Too much coffee from the office urn, no doubt. He wouldn’t give it another thought.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin knocked softly on the glass panel by Chris’s office door. Chris seemed to be reading a file, didn’t even look up, but Vin entered anyway. He leaned against the wall, watching and waiting for Larabee to say something ... anything. He was patient – he had to be in his job – and he could wait until Chris was ready to acknowledge his presence. Still, the man could be maddeningly deliberate when he chose and he had to know that Vin was watching him.

Chris picked up a pen, signed a form, set the pen down. Then he looked up. Vin didn’t need words; he read all he needed to know in Chris’s eyes.

His expression revealed all the pain and agony the last months had caused him, had cost the team. But there was something else in those green depths that had been hidden by the shadows of stress and tension for too long.

Peace. Acceptance. Knowledge. The look of a man who had survived; the look of a man who would never surrender.

Vin breathed a sigh. The world that had seemed unstable and unsubstantial was once more solid under his feet. His heart settled in his chest. He moved his spine off the wall and sat in the chair opposite Chris.

“So, I reckon I’m gonna hafta finish up them reports, after all.” His voice rasped painfully in a throat swollen with emotion and relief.

Chris smiled. “Yeah. I reckon you will.”

Vin grinned back and held out his hand. His palm ghosted against Chris’s on the way to grip his forearm. Chris’s fingers closed firmly over Vin’s arm as he returned the clasp; strength and healing flowing between them, re-weaving the bonds that had been so nearly severed by cruelty and deceit.

“You told the others?”

“Not yet.”

“Ya gonna?” A faint glint of humor in the still shadowed blue eyes.

“I ought to.” He shook his head at the quizzical look Vin was giving him. “It’s not a big event, Vin. Just a decision. I don’t want anything out of it.”

“I know.”

Chris stood and gathered up a stack of files, color tabbed according to the agent they were assigned to. “Ready?”

Vin gave him a lopsided smile and moved aside to follow Chris out of the office.

Chris paused by Buck’s desk first, sorted and dropped the blue-tabbed files in front of him, then walked around the desks, apportioning the files according to color before he returned to the center of the room. “We’ve got a helluva lot of catching up to do. It’s gonna mean long hours and reams of paperwork, but I figure we’ll be able to close out most of the deadwood by next week as long as we can catch a break from the criminal elements out there. And if we can’t, then Travis will just have to wait. Any questions?”

He looked around at his team; their expressions changing from concern to comprehension, then varying degrees of satisfaction, from Josiah’s quiet smile to JD’s whoop of joy. Overcome with unexpected emotion, he took refuge in the mundane. He looked at his watch, surprised at how late it was. God, where had the time gone? He drew a breath, reached for that calm center of himself. “But we can save that for tomorrow. Let’s call it a day.”

Buck was the first one up from his desk, shrugging into his jacket. “So, ya wanta head over to Inez’s?”

Chris ducked his head to hide his smile. “Sounds like a plan. I’ve got some things to take care of yet, so I’ll meet you there in a few.”

“Hell, Chris. We c’n wait,” Buck offered.

“Not if you want a table,” Chris grinned. “Go on, get out of here.” He didn’t have to say it twice. He went back to his office and gathered the papers into slightly more organized stacks, set his messages in order to return calls the next morning, checked his email one last time. Then satisfied that all was in order, he slung his jacket over his shoulder, turned off the lights, and made sure the door was secure behind him. The outer office was deafeningly silent following the departure of his team, even the hum of their computers gone quiet. He stood there for a moment, feeling the lingering imprint of the six vivid personalities in the atmosphere. The loss of one would have diminished them all in ways that were unthinkable, unimaginable. And *that* was the reason Chris had been unable to walk away from the job. The job was headaches and ulcers, danger and boredom, a check deposited in an account.

These men were his life.

Chris stepped out into the hall, closed the outer door. The night lights were on in the windowless corridor. A shadow detached itself from the darkness and for a moment Chris’s hand moved his jacket aside to clear his weapon, then dropped away.

“Thought you were gone with the others.”

Vin shrugged. “Didn’t want ya t’git all tangled up in work and fergit we’re waitin’.” It was an excuse; he and Chris both knew it. They exchanged a look and a grin.

“Thanks.”

“Well, I got the all clear t’have a drink and seems like Doc Stone wouldn’t mind you havin’ one, too. You ready?”

“I’ve been ready,” Chris said. “Just waiting for a reason that made sense.”

“Reckon this is it, cowboy.”

“Then let’s ride.” Chris set his hand on Vin’s shoulder, grateful that he could, that Vin was at his side, that they weren’t in their graves, that tomorrow he’d open the office and his team would be at their desks.

Hard to believe it had all started with an opera.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris hadn’t intended the drinks at Inez’s to become an event, but it was damn hard not to say *something* when he looked at the men gathered around the table. It was a sight he had sorely missed. He kept his words to himself, taking a page from Vin’s book and letting the conversation flow around him while he ordered his thoughts. How did you thank men who would die for you? How did you thank a man for being a friend for more years than they should have had together? How did you tell the man at your side that he had brought peace and healing into a life that had nearly been destroyed?

You couldn’t ... or rather, he couldn’t. His temper was one thing – hot and bright and dangerous – short-fused at the best of times; the heart of him that felt love and loss with exquisite pain, was quite another. But JD seemed to be expecting some sort of announcement judging from the way his eyes were wide and shining as he looked around the table. And even Buck was beginning to give him questioning looks at his uncharacteristic silence. Chris decided he owed him that much. Hell, he owed them *all* more than the assumption that he was grateful and life as they knew it would continue down its unseen path.

Reluctantly, Chris gave in to his instincts. He raised his glass with the last swallow of bourbon in it. His team was so attuned to him that their attention was nearly instantaneous. Chris drew a breath and spoke, his voice softer than usual, but every word clear. “For walking the line, for staying the course, for doing the job, for risking your lives. Maybe I don’t say this often enough, but thank you.”

Chris met Vin’s eyes. He nodded, then touched the rim of his glass to Chris’s. The others joined in, and the chime of their glasses and the chorus of their voices as they took up the toast was the finest music he had ever heard.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The next morning there were small envelopes at each of their workstations. Vin picked his up, opened it, frowned. “Ezra? This from you?” Judging from the puzzled looks on his fellow agents’ faces, they were wondering the same thing.

“Your powers of deduction are, as always, as sharp as your vision, Mr. Tanner.”

“Well, it don’t take much to figure that one out Ezra,” Buck said. “If it’s Italian, it has to be from you. Puccini ... he some sort of designer?”

“Giacomo Puccini,” Ezra sighed, “is a composer of Italian opera.”

“Tosca ... ain’t that the one that started this whole fuck-up?”

“Well, uh ...”

“Don’t you think maybe that particular production might not have pleasant associations for Vin? Hell, I’m surprised you want ta see it.”

“S’all right, Buck.” Vin pushed himself upright in his chair. “Thanks, Ez. I ‘preciate the thought.”

“If you had looked at the tickets, perhaps you would *all* understand my intentions.” Ezra held up his ticket. “Tosca, Madame Butterfly, Turandot ... music and arias ... You did like the music, didn’t you?”

“Sure, but y’ain’t gettin’ me in that Brionitux again.”

“Fine. Look, the tickets say, ‘Red Rocks amphitheater.’ No tuxedos required. You can even wear your beloved blue jeans and leather jacket.” He whirled towards JD. “And you, Mr. Dunne, will notice that there are two tickets for you and Miss Wells, and for you and whichever of your paramours you would like to invite, Buck. Nathan, I have included Rain in your invitation.”

They all looked at Ezra, the unflappable, who was looking back at them, practically *pleading* for them to accept his gift. “I-I thought perhaps we could all use some closure on this ...” He threw up his hands as if he were giving up on their responses. “It was a gesture of gratitude --”

“It’s mighty gen’rous, Ezra, and I’d be honored t’see it,” Vin said quietly. He looked around at the others, “An’ I reckon I’d like y’all t’come, too. Fer ... closure.”

And so it was agreed on, and by the time Chris walked in the door they were all at work at their desks. Vin waited five minutes, then followed him into his office. Chris was standing at the window looking out, tapping the envelope against his fingers thoughtfully. He didn’t turn around, but he asked, “You gonna go?”

“Cain’t disappoint Ezra. ‘Sides, I kinda liked th’music.”

Chris stood still, one finger slowly tracing down the window. “Sarah loved the opera. She usually went with a friend ... I was gone a lot in those days. But once a year, I’d get all duded up and take her. Tosca was the last one we saw together.”

Vin heard the unfathomable sadness in his voice. “Ez’d understand if ya begged off,” he said. “If it was too hard on ya ...” His voice trailed off diffidently. Truth be said, he wanted Chris there, steady and strong at his back.

“If you can stand it, I can stand it.” Chris turned slowly, a wry smile on his lips.

Vin chuckled quietly. “I ain’t gittin’ in a spittin’ contest with ya, Chris. I reckon we done enough comparin’ scars.”

Chris sat down at his desk with a sigh. “Reckon we have.” He smiled. “Reckon we will again.”

Their eyes met. Rueful, understanding, amused at the truth of the words. Vin stood. “Well, them reports ya wanted ain’t gittin’ written while I’m in here.”

Vin closed the door behind him. The office had gone back to its usual state of ordered chaos. Buck was humming along with a radio tuned to a country station, Josiah and Nathan were talking over files, their deep voices quiet but carrying over the music. JD was typing with maniacal speed while Ezra hit a few keys, paused to think, then typed a few more words. His reports were verbal masterpieces, while Vin’s were as monosyllabic as he could make them. He supposed in the long run they said the same thing. Kind of the way opera and country music were the same thing – just music notes arranged in a different pattern.

Kind of like the way they all worked together. Different harmonies and rhythms, but well-matched. Pleased with his logic, Vin sat down at his desk and began composing his own music.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin closed his apartment door and shot the deadbolt and chains. He leaned against it for a moment, feeling odd and unsettled to be alone for the first time since he’d been released from the hospital. He’d been alone more in his life than not, but his fellow agents had pierced that shell of solitude he’d built around his life and it now seemed empty and too silent. He shrugged himself upright. Wouldn’t do to get too used to company. If the last weeks had done anything, they had reinforced his knowledge that sooner or later, a man was alone with his life.

He went to the kitchen and took out a bottle of water, drank it, then turned on the TV. Not much on, and the picture wasn’t that great to begin with, not like Chris’s big-screen set with all the bells and whistles. No sense in buying anything fancy for this place – it wouldn’t last the week. He took off his shoulder holster and stretched out full-length on the couch, the rolled arm pillowing his head, and fell asleep to the drone of the news.

A sound woke him. Footsteps outside his door. He heard them even before his mind was fully awake and his heavy eyes opened. He reached for his gun, slipped off his boots and crossed the floor soundlessly. He looked through the peephole, backed off, puzzled.

“Ezra?” He opened the locks and the door. “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked in a worry-roughened whisper. “Ever’body all right?” The dapper agent’s visits to Purgatorio were usually prompted by business or disaster and were rare enough to cause Vin concern.

Ezra looked at him. “I believe so. May I?” He inclined his head and Vin stepped aside so he could enter.

“Then what’re ya doin’ here?”

Ezra looked at him, apparently noticing his slightly more disheveled than usual state and his drowsy eyes. “I woke you.”

“Well, yeah. But that ain’t neither here nor there if somethin’s up.” He combed his fingers through his tangled hair. “Make yerself comfortable. Be right back.” He started a pot of coffee, then went into the bathroom to freshen up, while he tried to figure out what on earth had made Ezra stop by. Between his poker face and that smoke and mirrors act he did with disguises, it was damn hard to figure out what was going on in his head, and frankly, it made Vin’s hair hurt. He splashed some cold water on his face to chase the cobwebs away and went to the kitchen to see if the coffee had finished brewing.

He returned to the living room with two steaming mugs. “Ya want milk?” he asked.

Ezra took a mug, sipped, and grimaced. “Good Lord, this brew would wake the dead.”

Vin laughed. “Hell, ain’t no use in makin’ coffee that don’t!” He ducked back into the kitchen and came out with a carton of milk and the sugar bowl. “Reckon this’ll blunt it.” When Ezra had adjusted the level of heat and acidity to his taste, Vin asked again, “So, why *are* ya here?”

“I don’t suppose you would believe I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

Vin raised a skeptical brow. “Prob’ly not.”

“I ... ah ... well ... I –”

“C’mon, Ezra. Spit it out. If it ain’t bad news, it’s not gonna kill either one of us.”

“I simply wanted to thank you for accepting my offering.”

Vin’s brow furrowed. “It was real generous of you. Think it took us by surprise, is all.” Then as if he realized that was not the most deftly worded of explanations, he shook his head. “Hell, I didn’t mean y’ain’t generous, ‘cause y’are –”

“You saved my life *twice.* That is a greater generosity by far than my paltry opera tickets.”

The slight bitterness in Ezra’s voice made Vin give him a sharp look. He realized for the first time that Ezra had no idea of the balance he provided to the team or the value of his skills. Vin had tangible evidence every time he went to the firing range. He had a drawer full of competition medals he had won over the years; and a few he had earned in ways that no man should be proud of – but that was all part of what he was, of who he was. Ezra had made a career of *not* being himself, of being so many other kinds of folk that maybe he wasn’t so sure of who he really was; probably figured nobody else was so sure, either.

In a rare physical gesture, Vin set his hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “Yer a good man, Ez. It’s gotta be hard doin’ what ya do day after day – reckon we all know that ... jist fergit t’say it sometimes.” His fingers tightened and he gave a brief, expressive nod, his blue eyes locked into Ezra’s before he released him.

Ezra blinked, looked away and cleared his throat. “Well, I will let you get your well-deserved rest.” He looked out the window. “It’s raining.” He sounded surprised.

“Yeah, it does that once in a while.” Vin smiled. “I know it ain’t much like home, but Chris says this here couch makes a tolerable bed. Yer welcome t’use it if ya don’t feel like drivin’ in the rain.”

The offer was a greater surprise than the rain, evidently. Ezra’s eyes widened, and Vin was pretty sure he was going to refuse, but then he nodded. “However, I insist that you allow me to provide dinner.”

“Ya eat Chinese?”

“Chinese, in Purgatorio?” Ezra looked faintly alarmed.

“Yeah, there’s this real nice Vietnamese couple owns a place down the block, do kind of a mix of Thai, Chinese, Viet. Best Spring rolls ya ever ate. Food’s real fresh. Ya trust me?”

Ezra took a breath. “Implicitly.”

“Ya won’t be sorry.” He dialed the phone and began ordering in what sounded like very serviceable Vietnamese.

He didn’t hear Ezra’s softly spoken words, “I never have been, Mr. Tanner. Not once.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

To Ezra’s surprise the food was good, though Tanner’s fondness for the searing heat of Thai peppers nearly cost Ezra the lining of his throat; after which he stuck mostly to the less lethal dishes. They drank Mexican beer to appease the gods of Purgatorio and cool the fires, and by the time Ezra had finished his second Dos Equis he was feeling pretty relaxed and loquacious.

“So, Mr. Tanner. Where did you learn to speak Vietnamese?”

“Here n’ there. Picked up a bit when I’s workin’ fer an old guy who owned a store. He didn’t speak much English, was too old to learn it, so it was up t’me t’translate fer his customers. Got a bit more practice when I’s in the Rangers.”

His mouth closed in a thin line and Ezra decided it would be wiser to retreat from that line of questioning. “You have led a most unusual and adventurous life.”

Vin cast him a slightly jaundiced look. “Yeah, reckon that’s one way to put it.” Then he smiled. “Guess it’s finally settled down.”

“I would hardly call our occupations settled,” Ezra said.

“It ain’t the job,” Vin said quietly.

Ezra’s eyes widened as he understood exactly what Vin meant. It never failed to amaze him that a man of so few words, and such simple ones, could zero in on the heart of the matter as unerringly as he drew a bead on a target. He knew what Vin meant. Lord, how he knew it. Somehow, in the chaos of his life, he had found a place where he belonged, with six teammates who were more constant than his own mother. Perhaps he was being harsh, but that was how he felt.

“Thank you for your hospitality.”

Vin’s brow lifted. “It ain’t that big a deal.” He stood up, stretched out his back. “I’ll git some bedding for ya. Prob’ly ain’t as swank as yer used to.”

Ezra thought of his Egyptian cotton sheets. He had no doubt that Vin’s most likely had come from Wal-Mart. “I am weary enough to sleep on steel wool,” he said graciously, or at least hoped Vin would take it that way.

Vin laughed. “Hell, they ain’t that bad!” He shot over his shoulder as he left the living room. He returned and dropped a pile of sheets, a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. “G’night, Ez. Got a hanger here fer yer suit. Figured ya wouldn’t want t’sleep in it. Ya know where ever’thing else is.”

He closed the blinds, gave Ezra a tired wave and disappeared down the hall. Ezra used the bathroom, changed into the worn, soft sweats and t-shirt, and settled on the couch. He closed his eyes. Mr. Larabee was right. It was comfortable, though he wasn’t sure that the comfort he felt wasn’t more from the presence of the man down the hall than the actual depth and softness of the cushions beneath him. It didn’t matter. He slept.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

When Vin woke the next morning, coffee was made, the sheets and clothing Ezra had borrowed were neatly folded on the couch, and Ezra was gone, leaving only a note of gratitude ... none of the words exceeding three syllables; a nuance of expression that didn’t escape Vin’s appreciation. There were times when Ezra could tie the English language in such knots that Hercules would have had a hard time slicing through his sentences, but when it mattered, his words were simple and expressive. Vin tucked the note under a magnet on his refrigerator and leaned up against the breakfast bar, drinking his coffee, trying to wake up enough for his brain to function.

Technically, he was still on sick leave and not required to keep regular office hours, but today was special. Today was like the world was starting brand new, kind of like it had the first time he’d set foot in Chris’s office and had been welcomed without hesitation – not just because he happened to be a much needed sharpshooter – but because Chris Larabee had looked into his eyes and seen clear to the bottom of his soul; he hadn’t needed more than that to know that he had come home.

Pleased and at peace, Vin showered and dressed, put on his shoulder rig, and realized that for the first time in weeks his stomach wasn’t churning or his nerves stretched to the breaking point. He’d get through the day and tonight was the concert at Red Rocks, and then the weekend.

Seemed like a damn fine way to begin again.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The program was billed as Opera Under the Stars, and it was just that. Didn’t hardly need spotlights with that big Colorado moon shining down from a starry summer sky. The air was milk-warm and still, with just the faintest breeze drifting through the Red Rocks amphitheater. Nathan, Buck, JD and their dates were sitting in the amphitheater itself, while Chris, Vin, Ezra, and Josiah chose to spread blankets on a knoll overlooking the pavilion. Ezra had suggested the spot, claiming that the acoustics were better, but Vin suspected it was out of deference to his own claustrophobic tendencies. But nobody seemed to mind, and Vin preferred lying back and listening to the music as he gazed up into the deep blue sky overhead.

It seemed like that evening at the Buell Center had happened to somebody else – and maybe it had – he didn’t see that any of them had come through this ordeal unchanged. The fresh scars on their bodies might fade, but would never completely heal; the same way the moonlight softened but could not erase the lines of care he saw on Chris’s face.

*Fled is that hour, I die in despair, and never before have I loved life so much.*

Chris turned to him as if he had heard Vin’s thoughts, his eyes silvered and soft. He smiled slightly, shook his head, telling Vin that the lyrics of the aria were nothing more than words. He wasn’t despairing, and nobody was dead but Troy D’Amico, fallen into darkness.

The orchestra began another aria, this one as magical and stirring as the sound of the wind rising through the pines. Vin had heard it before in the background of commercials and movies, had studied the lyrics in the program before the music started, committing them to memory. *Nessun Dorma.*

Ezra leaned forward, whispering, “None shall sleep but Josiah, apparently.”

Vin grinned at Sanchez’s relaxed and slumbering form. “Reckon nobody told Puccini that.” He lay back, his head pillowed on his crossed arms, floating on the music that coursed through his body as the aria came to its stirring conclusion.

*Vanish, o night! Set, o stars! At daybreak, I shall conquer!*

The tenor’s voice soared through the evening air, triumphant and sure. The orchestra caught and echoed the last notes, casting them up to the heavens, certain as love and strong as the truth.

*Vincero!*

Vin’s heart ached and rose in his chest. He knew that certainty, he knew that courage; he felt it every single day, warming him and lighting his way in the darkest night. It was JD’s wide-eyed innocence, Buck’s laughter, Ezra’s wily intellect. It was Nathan’s gentle hands and Josiah’s certain faith.

And it was Chris. No other way to say it or think it. It just *was*.

Vin looked at him, the stillness of his profile. Maybe it was some trick of light, maybe it was because as the tenor sang of his victory over darkness Chris felt a burden lift from his heart, as Vin had, but some of the lines and shadows on his face softened and smoothed into an expression that was as close to peace as Vin had ever seen there. He thought perhaps there was some truth in the saying, “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.”

Maybe not for forever, but at least for tonight. He could live with that, let the past, the pain, and the guilt go, and lose himself in the music and the stars as long as he knew he had friends watching his back.

*Vincero!*

The End


End file.
